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THE KILLER 

By 

STEWART EDWARD WHITE 



THE KILLER 



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THE KILLER 

By 

STEWART EDWARD WHITE / 

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Garden City New York 
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 
1919 






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COPYRIGHT, 1919, BY 
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF 
TRANSLATION INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, 
INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN 




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©CI.A5360 22 



THE KILLER 












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* 















THE KILLER 


CHAPTER I 

I want to state*right at the start that I am writing this 
story twenty years after it happened solely because my wife 
and Senor Buck Johnson insist on it. Myself, I don’t think 
it a good yarn. It hasn’t any love story in it; and there 
isn’t any plot. Things just happened, one thing after the 
other. There ought to be a yarn in it somehow, and I sup- 
pose if a fellow wanted to lie a little he could make a tail- 
twister out of it. Anyway, here goes; and if you don’t like 
it, you know you can quit at any stage of the game. 

It happened when I was a kid and didn’t know any better 
than to do such things. They dared me to go up to Hoop- 
er’s Ranch and stay all night; and as I had no information 
on either the ranch or its owner, I saddled up and went. 
It was only twelve miles from our Box Springs ranch — a nice 
easy ride. I should explain that heretofore I had ridden the 
Gila end of our ranges, which is so far away that only vague 
rumours of Hooper had ever reached me at all. He was 
reputed a tough old devil, with horrid habits; but that meant 
little to me. The tougher and horrider they came, the bet- 
ter they suited me — so I thought. Just to make every- 
thing entirely clear I will add that this was in the year of 
1897 and the Soda Springs valley in Arizona. 

3 


THE KILLER 


By these two facts you old-timers will gather the setting 
of my tale. Indian days over; “nester” days with frame 
houses and vegetable patches not yet here. Still a few guns 
packed for business purposes; Mexican border handy; no 
railroad in to Tombstone yet; cattle rustlers lingering in the 
Galiuros; train holdups and homicide yet prevalent but 
frowned upon; favourite tipple whiskey toddy with sugar; 
— but the old fortified ranches all gone, longhorns crowded 
out by shorthorn glaze-head Herfords or near-Her fords, 
some indignation against Alfred Henry Lewis’s Wolfville as 
a base libel; — and, also but, no gasoline wagons or pumps, 
no white collar, no tourists pervading the desert, and the 
Injins still wearing blankets and overalls at their reserva- 
tions instead of bead work on the railway platforms when 
the Overland goes through. In other words, we were wild 
and wooly, but sincerely didn’t know it. 

While I was saddling up to go take my dare old Jed Parker 
came and leaned himself up against the snubbing post of 
the corral. He watched me for a while, and I kept quiet, 
knowing well enough that he had something to say. 

“Know Hooper?” he asked. 

“I’ve seen him driving by,” said I. 

I had : a little humped insignificant figure with close crop- 
ped white hair beneath a huge hat. He drove all hunched 
up. His buckboard was a rattletrap old insulting challenge 
to every little stone in the road; but there was nothing the 
matter with the horses or their harness. We never held 
much with grooming in Arizona, but these beasts shone like 
bronze. Good sizeable horses, clean built — well, I better 
not get started talking horse! They’re the reason I had 


4 


THE KILLER 

never really sized up’ the old man the few times I’d passed 
him. 

“ Well, he’s a tough bird,” said Jed. 

“ Looks like a harmless old cuss — but mean,” says I. 

“About this trip,” said Jed, after I’d saddled and coiled 
my rope — “don’t, and say you did.” 

I didn’t answer this, but led my horse to the gate. 

“Well, don’t say as how I didn’t tell you all about it,” 
said Jed, going back to the bunk house. 3 

Miserable old coot! I suppose he thought he had told 
me all about it! Jed was always too loquacious! 

But I hadn’t racked along more than two miles before a 
man cantered up who was perfectly able to express him- 
self. He was one of our outfit and was known as Windy 
Bill. Nuffsaid! 

“Hear you’re goin’ up to stay the night at Hoopers.” 
said he. “Know Hooper?” 

“No, I don’t,” said, I, “are you another of these Sunbirds 
with glad news?” 

“Know about Hooper’s boomerang?” 

“Boomerang!” I replied, “what’s that?” 

“That’s what they call it. You know how of course we 
all let each other’s strays water at our troughs in this coun- 
try, and send ’em back to the range at round up.” 

“Brother, you interest me,” said I, “and would you mind 
informing me further how you tell the dear little cows 
apart?” 

“Well, old Hooper don’t, that’s all,” went on Windy, with- 
out paying me any attention. “He built him a chute lead- 
ing to the water corrals, and half way down the chute he 

5 


THE KILLER 


built a gate that would swing across it and open a hole into 
a dry corral. And he had a high platform with a handle 
that ran the gate. When any cattle but those of his own 
brands came along, he had a man swing the gate and they 
landed up into the dry corral. By and by he let them out 
on the range again.” 

“ Without water?” 

“Sure! And of course back they came into the chute* 
And so on. Till they died, or we came along and drove 
them back home.” 

“Windy,” said I, “you’re stuffing me full of tacks.” 

“I’ve seen little calves lyin’ in heaps against the fence like 
drifts of tumbleweed,” said Windy soberly; and then added, 
without apparent passion, “The old !” 

Looking at Windy’s face, I knew these words for truth. 

“He’s a bad hombre ,” resumed Windy Bill after a mo- 
ment. “He never does no actual killing himself, but he’s 
got a bad lot, of oilers* there, especially an old one named 
Andreas and another one called Ramon, and all he has to do 
is to lift one eye at a man he don’t like and that man is as 
good as dead — one time or another.” 

This was going it pretty strong, and I grinned at Windy 
Bill. 

“All right,” said Windy, “I’m just telling you.” 

“Well, what’s the matter with you fellows down here?” I 
challenged. “How is it he’s lasted so long? Why hasn’t 
someone shot him? Are you all afraid of him, or his Mex- 
icans? ” 

“No, it ain’t that, exactly. I don’t know. He drives by 


*Oiler = Greaser = Mexican. 


6 


THE KILLER 


all alone, and he don’t pack no gun ever, and he’s sort of 
runty — and, — I do’ no why he ain’t been shot, but he ain’t. 
And if I was you, I’d stick home.” 

Windy amused but did not greatly persuade me. By this 
time I was fairly conversant with the cowboy’s sense of 
humour. Nothing would have tickled them more than to 
bluff me out of a harmless excursion, by means of scareful 
tales. Shortly Windy Bill turned off to examine a distant 
bunch of cattle; and so I rode on alone. 

It was coming on toward evening. Against the eastern 
mountains were floating tinted mists; and the canons were 
a deep purple. The cattle were moving slowly so that here 
and there a nimbus of dust caught and reflected the late 
sunlight into gamboge yellows and mauves. The magic 
time was near when the fierce implacable day-genius of the 
desert would fall asleep and the soft, gentle, beautiful 
star-eyed night-genius of the desert would arise and move 
softly. My pony racked along in the desert. The mass 
that represented Hooper’s ranch drew imperfectly nearer. 
I made out the green of trees and the white of walls and 
building. 


7 


CHAPTER II 


Hooper’s ranch proved to be entirely enclosed by a wall 
of adobe ten feet high and whitewashed. To the outside 
it presented a blank face. Only corrals and an alfalfa 
patch were not included. A wide high gateway, that could 
be closed by massive doors, let into a stable yard, and 
seemed to be the only entrance. The buildings within 
were all immaculate also : evidently Old Man Hooper loved 
whitewash. Cottonwood trees showed their green heads; 
and to the right I saw the sloped shingled roof of a larger 
building. Not a living creature was in sight. I shook 
myself, saying that the undoubted sinister feeling of utter 
silence and lifelessness was compounded of my expectations 
and the time of day. But that did not satisfy me. My 
aroused mind, casting about, soon struck it: I was missing 
the swarms of blackbirds, linnets, purple finches, and doves 
that made our own ranch trees vocal. Here were no birds. 
Laughing at this simple explanation of my erie feeling, 
I passed under the gate and entered the courtyard. 

It, too, seemed empty. A stable occupied all one side ; the 
other three were formed by bunk houses and necessary out- 
buildings. Here, too, dwelt absolute solitude and absolute 
silence. It was uncanny, as though one walked in a vacuum. 
Everything was neat and shut up and whitewashed and ap- 
parently dead. There were no sounds or signs of occu- 

8 


THE KILLER 


pancy. I was as much alone as though I had been in the 
middle of an ocean. My mind, by now abnormally sensi- 
tive and alert, leaped on this idea. For the same reason, 
it insisted, — lack of life: there are no birds here, not even 
fliesl Of course, said I, gone to bed in the cool of evening : 
why should there be? I laughed aloud and hushed sud- 
denly; and then nearly jumped out of skin. The thin blue 
curl of smoke had caught my eye; and I became aware of 
the figure of a man seated on the ground, in the shadow, 
leaning against the building. The curl of smoke was from 
his cigarette. He was wrapped in a serape which blended 
well with the cool color of shadow. My eyes were dazzled 
with the whitewash — natural enough — yet the impression 
of solitude had been so complete — ; it was uncanny, as 
though he had materialized out of the shadow itself. Silly 
idea! I ranged my eye along the row of houses, and I saw 
three other figures I had missed before, all broodingly im- 
mobile, all merged in shadow, all watching me, all with the 
insubstantial air of having as I looked taken body from thin 
air. 

This was too foolish! I dismounted, dropped my horse’s 
reins over his head and sauntered to the nearest figure. He 
was lost in the dusk of the building and of his Mexican hat. 
I saw only the gleam of eyes. 

“ Where will I find Mr. Hooper? ” I asked. 

The figure waved a long slim hand toward a wicket gate 
in one side of the enclosure. He said no word, nor made an- 
other motion; and the other figures sat as though graved 
from stone. 

After a moment’s hesitation I pushed open the wicket 
9 


THE KILLER 


gate, and so found myself in a smaller intimate courtyard 
of most surprising character. Its centre was green grass, 
and about its border grew tall bright flowers. A wide ver- 
andah ran about three sides. I could see that in the numer- 
ous windows hung white lace curtains. Mind you, this was 
in Arizona of the ’nineties ! 

I knocked at the nearest door, and after an interval it 
opened and I stood face to face with Old Man Hooper himself. 

He proved to be as small as I had thought, not taller than 
my own shoulder, with a bent little figure dressed in wrink- 
led and baggy store clothes of a snuff brown. His bullet 
head had been cropped so that his hair stood up like a short- 
bristled white brush. His rather round face was brown 
and lined. His hands, which grasped the doorposts un- 
compromisingly to bar the way, were lean and veined and 
old. But all that I found in my recollections afterwards 
to be utterly unimportant. His eyes were his predominant, 
his formidable, his compelling characteristic. They were 
round, the pupils very small, the irises large and of a light 
flecked blue. From the pupils radiated fine lines. The 
blank cold inscrutable stare of them bored me through 
to the back of the neck. I suppose the man winked oc- 
casionally, but I never got that impression. I’ve noticed 
that owls have this same intent unwinking stare — and wild 
cats. 

“Mr. Hooper,” said I, “can you keep me over night?” 

It was a usual request in the old cattle country. He con- 
tinued to stare at me for some moments. 

“Where are you from?” he asked at length. His voice 
was soft and low; rather purring. 

io 


THE KILLER 


I mentioned our headquarters on the Gila: it did not 
seem worth while to say anything about Box Springs only 
a dozen miles away. He stared at me for some time more. 

“Come in,” he said abruptly; and stood aside. 

This was a disconcerting surprise. All I had expected 
was permission to stop, and a direction as to how to find 
the bunk house. Then a more or less dull evening, and a 
return the following day to collect on my “dare.” I step- 
ped into the dimness of the hallway: and immediately after 
into a room beyond. 

Again I must remind you that this was the Arizona of the 
’nineties. All the ranch houses with which I was acquainted, 
and I knew about all of them, were very crudely done. 
They comprised generally a half dozen rooms with adobe 
walls and rough board floors, with only such furnishings 
as deal tables, benches, homemade chairs, perhaps a bat- 
tered old washstand or so, and bunks filled with straw. We 
had no such things as tablecloths and sheets, of course. 
Everything was on a like scale of simple utility. 

All right, get that in your mind. The interior into which 
I now stepped, with my clanking spurs, my rattling chaps y 
the dust of my sweat-stained garments, was a low ceilinged 
dim abode with faint musty aromas. Carpets covered the 
floors; an old fashioned hat rack flanked the door on one 
side, a tall clock on the other. I saw in passing framed steel 
engravings. The room beyond contained easy chairs, a 
sofa upholstered with hair cloth, an upright piano, a marble 
fireplace with a mantel, in a corner a three cornered what- 
not filled with objects. It too was dim and curtained and 
faintly aromatic as had been the house of an old maiden 


ii 


THE KILLER 


aunt of my childhood, who used to give me cookies on the 
Sabbath. I felt now too large, and too noisy, and altogether 
mis-dressed and blundering and dirty. The little old man 
moved without a sound and the grandfather’s clock outside 
ticked deliberately in a hollow silence. 

I sat down, rather gingerly, in the chair he indicated for 
me. 

“I shall be very glad to offer you hospitality for the 
night,” he said, as though there had been no interim. “I 
feel honoured at the opportunity.” 

I murmured my thanks, and a suggestion that I should 
look after my horse. 

“Your horse, sir, has been attended to, and your cantinas * 
are undoubtedly by now in your room, where, I am sure, 
you are anxious to repair.” 

He gave no signal, nor uttered any command, but at his 
last words a grave elderly Mexican appeared noiseless at 
my elbow. As a matter of fact he came through as un- 
noticed door at the back, but he might as well have material- 
ized from the thin air for the start that he gave me. Hooper 
instantly arose. 

“ I trust, sir, you will find all to your liking. If anything 
is lacking, I trust you will at once indicate the fact. We 
shall dine in a half hour ” 

He seized a small implement consisting of a bit of wire 
screen attached to the end of a short stick, darted across the 
room with the most extraordinary agility, thwacked a lone 
house fly, and returned. 

“ — And you will undoubtedly be ready for it,” he finished 

* Saddle pockets that fit on the pommel. 


12 


THE KILLER 

his speech calmly, as though he had not moved from his 
tracks. 

I murmured my acknowledgements. My last impression 
as I left the room was of the baleful dead challenging stare 
of the man’s wild cat eyes. 

The Mexican glided before me. We emerged into the 
court, walked along the verandah, and entered a bedroom- 
My guide slipped by me and disappeared before I had the 
chance of a word with him. He may have been dumb for 
all I know. I sat down and tried to take stock. 


CHAPTER III 


The room was small, but it was papered, it was rugged, its 
floor was painted and waxed, its window — opening into the 
court, by the way, — was hung with chintz and net curtain, 
its bed was garnished with sheets and counterpane, its chairs 
were upholstered and in perfect repair and polish. It was 
not Arizona, emphatically not, but rather the sweet and 
garnished and lavendered respectability of a Connecticut 
village. My dirty old cantinas lay stacked against the 
washstand. At sight of them I had to grin. Of course I 
travelled cowboy fashion. They contained a tooth brush, 
a comb, and a change of underwear. The latter item was 
sheer rank pride of caste. 

It was all most incongruous and strange. But the strang- 
est part, of course, was the fact that I found myself where I 
was at that moment. Why was I thus received? Why 
was I, an ordinary and rather dirty cowpuncher, not sent 
as usual to the men’s bunk house? It could not be possible 
that Old Man Hooper extended this sort of hospitality to 
every chance wayfarer. Arizona is a democratic country, 
Lord knows: none more so! But owners are not likely to 
invite in strange cowboys unless they themselves mess with 
their own men. I gave it up, and tried unsuccessfully to 
shrug it off my mind, and sought distraction in looking about 
me. There was not much to see. The one door and one 


14 


THE KILLER 


window opened into the court. The other side was blank 
except that near the ceiling ran a curious long narrow open- 
ing closed by a transom-like sash. I had never seen any- 
thing quite like it, but concluded that it must be a sort of 
loop hole for musketry in the old days. Probably they had 
some kind of scaffold to stand on. 

I pulled off my shirt and took a good wash : shook the dust 
out of my clothes as well as I could; removed my spurs and 
chaps; knotted my silk handkerchief necktie fashion; slicked 
down my wet hair, and tried to imagine myself decently 
turned out for company. I took off my gun belt also; but 
after some hesitation thrust the revolver inside the waist- 
band of my drawers. Had no reason; simply the border 
instinct to stick to one’s weapon. 

Then I sat down to wait. The friendly little noises of my 
own movements left me. I gave you my word, never be- 
fore nor since have I experienced such stillness. In vain I 
told myself that with adobe walls two feet thick, a windless 
evening, and an hour after sunset stillness was to be ex- 
pected. That did not satisfy. Silence is made up of a 
thousand little noises so accustomed that they pass over the 
consciousness. Somehow these little noises seemed to lack, 
I sat in an aural vacuum. This analysis has come to me 
since. At that time I only knew that most uneasily I missed 
something; and that my ears ached from vain listening. 

At the end of the half hour I returned to the parlour. 
Old Man Hooper was there waiting. A hanging lamp had 
been lighted. Out of the shadows cast from it a slender 
figure rose and came forward. 

“My daughter, Mr. ” he paused. 

i5 


THE KILLER 


“ Sanborn,” I supplied. 

“My dear, Mr. Sanborn has most kindly dropped in to 
relieve the tedium of our evening with his company — his 
distinguished company.’’ He pronounced the words suav- 
ely, without a trace of sarcastic emphasis, yet somehow I 
felt my face flush. And all the time he was staring at me 
blankly with his wide unblinking wild-cat eyes. 

The girl was very pale, with black hair, and wide eyes 
under fair wide brow. She was simply dressed in some sort 
of white stuff. I thought she drooped a little. She did not 
look at me, nor speak to me; only bowed slightly. 

We went at once into a dining room at the end of the little 
dark hall. It was lighted by a suspended lamp that threw 
the illumination straight down on a table perfect in its 
appointments of napery, silver, and glass. I felt very awk- 
ward and dusty in my cowboy rig; and rather too large. 
The same Mexican served us, deftly. We had delightful 
food, well cooked. I do not remember what it was. My 
attention was divided between the old man and his daugh- 
ter. He talked, urbanely, of a wide range of topics, dis- 
playing a cosmopolitan taste, employing a choice of words 
and phrases that was astonishing. The girl, who turned 
out to be very pretty in a dark, pale, sad way, never raised 
her eyes from her plate. 

It was the cool of the evening, and a light breeze from the 
open window swung the curtains. From the blackness out- 
side a single frog began to chirp. My host’s flow of words 
eddied, ceased. He raised his head uneasily; then, without 
apology, slipped from his chair and glided from the room. 
The Mexican remained ; standing bolt upright in the dimness. 

16 


THE KILLER 


For the first time the girl spoke. Her voice was low and 
sweet, but either I or my aroused imagination 'detected a 
strained under quality. 

“ Ramon,” she said in Spanish, “I am chilly. Close the 
window.” 

The servant turned his back to obey. With a movement 
rapid as a snake’s dart the girl’s hand came from beneath the 
table, reached across and thrust into mine a small folded 
paper. The next instant she was back in her place, staring 
down as before in apparent apathy. So amazed was I 
that I recovered barely soon enough to conceal the paper 
before Ramon turned back from his errand. 

The next five minutes were to me hours of strained and 
bewildered waiting. I addressed one or two remarks to my 
companion, but received always monosyllabic answers. 
Twice I caught the flash of lanterns beyond the darkened 
window; and a subdued confused murmur as though several 
people were walking about stealthily. Except for this the 
night had again fallen deathly still. Even the cheerful 
frog had hushed. 

At the end of a period my host returned, and without 
apology or explanation resumed his seat and took up his 
remarks where he had left them. 

The girl disappeared somewhere between the table and 
the sitting room. Old Man Hooper offered me a cigar, and 
sat down deliberately to entertain me. I had an uncom- 
fortable feeling that he was also amusing himself, as though 
I were being played with and covertly sneered at. Hoop- 
er’s politeness and suavity concealed, and well concealed, 
a bitter irony. His manner was detached and a little pre- 


*7 


THE KILLER 


cise. Every few moments he burst into a flurry of activity 
with the fly whacker, darting here and there as his eyes fell 
upon one of the insects; but returning always calmly to his 
discourse with an air of never having moved from his chair. 
He talked to me of Praxiteles, among other things. What 
should an Arizona cowboy know of Praxiteles? and why 
should anyone talk to him of that worthy Greek save as a 
subtle and hidden expression of contempt? That was my 
feeling. My senses and mental apperceptions were by now 
a little on the raw. 

That, possibly, is why I noticed the very first chrip of 
another frog outside. It continued, and I found myself 
watching my host covertly. Sure enough, after a few 
repetitions I saw subtle signs of uneasiness, of divided 
attention; and soon, again without apology or explana- 
tion, he glided from the room. And at the same instant the 
old Mexican servitor came and pretended to fuss with the 
lamps. 

My curiosity was now thoroughly aroused, but I could 
guess no means of satisfying it. Like the bedroom, this 
parlour gave out only on the interior court. The flash of 
lanterns against the ceiling above reached me. All I could 
do was to wander about looking at the objects in the cabinet 
and the pictures on the walls. There was, I remember, a 
set of carved ivory chessmen and an engraving of the legal 
trial of some English worthy of the seventeenth century. 
But my hearing was alert, and I thought to hear footsteps 
outside. At any rate the chirp of the frog came to an abrupt 
end. 

Shortly my host returned and took up his monologue. 

18 


THE KILLER 


It amounted to that. He seemed to delight in choosing 
unusual subjects and then backing me into a corner with 
an array of well considered phrases that allowed me no 
opening for reply nor even comment. In one of my des- 
perate attempts to gain even a momentary initiative I 
asked him, apropos of the piano, whether his daughter 
played. 

“Do you like music?” he added, and without waiting for 
a reply seated himself at the instrument. 

He played to me for half an hour. I do not know much 
about music; but I know he played well and that he played 
good things. Also that, for the first time, he came out of 
himself, abandoned himself to feeling. His close-cropped 
head swayed from side to side; his staring wildcat eyes half 
closed 

He slammed shut the piano and arose, more drily precise 
than ever. 

“I imagine all that is rather beyond your apperceptions,’’ 
he remarked, “and that you are ready for your bed. Here 
is a short document I would have you take to your room for 
perusal. Good night.” 

He tendered me a small folded paper which I thrust into 
the breast pocket of my shirt along with the note handed me 
earlier in the evening by the girl. Thus dismissed I was 
only too delighted to repair to my bedroom. 

There I first carefully drew together the curtains; then 
examined the first of the papers I drew from my pocket. 
It proved to be the one from the girl, and read as follows: 

“I am here against my will. I am not this man’s daughter, 
For God’s sake if you can help me, do so. But be careful for 


i9 


THE KILLER 


he is a dangerous man. My room is the last one on the left 
wing of the couJt. I am constantly guarded. I do not know 
what you can do. The case is hopeless. I cannot write more. 
I am watched.” 

I unfolded the paper Hooper himself had given me. It 
was similar in appearance to the other, and read : 

“I am held a prisoner. This man Hooper is not my father 
but he is vindictive and cruel and dangerous. Beware for 
yourself. I liqe in ihe last room in the left wing. I am 
watched, so cannot write more.” 

The handwriting of the two documents was the same. 
I stared at one paper and then at the other, and for an half 
hour I thought all the thoughts appropriate to the occas- 
ion. They led me no where, and would not interest you. 


20 


CHAPTER IV 


After a time I went to bed, but not to sleep. I placed my 
gun under my pillow, locked and bolted the door, and ar- 
ranged a string cunningly across the open window so that an 
intruder — unless he had extraordinary luck — could not 
have failed to kick up a devil of a clatter. I was young, 
bold, without nerves; so that I think I can truthfully say I 
was not in the least frightened. But I cannot deny I was 
nervous — or rather the whole situation was on my nerves. 
I lay on my back staring straight at the ceiling. I caught 
myself gripping the sheets and listening. Only there was 
nothing to listen to. The night was absolutely still. There 
were no frogs, no owls, no crickets even. The firm old adobe 
walls gave off no creak nor snap of timbers. The world 
was muffled — I almost said smothered. The psychological 
effect was that of blank darkness, the black darkness of far 
underground; although the moon was sailing the heavens. 

How long that lasted I could not tell you. But at last 
the silence was broken by the cheerful chirp of a frog. 
Never was sound more grateful to the ear! I lay drinking 
it in as thirstily as water after a day on the desert. It seemed 
that the world breathed again, was coming alive after syn- 
cope. And then beneath that loud and cheerful singing I 
became aware of duller half heard movements; and a mom- 
ent or so later yellow lights began to flicker through the 


21 


THE KILLER 


transom high at the blank wall of the room, and to reflect 
in wavering patches on the ceiling. Evidently somebody 
was afoot outside with a lantern. 

I crept from the bed, moved the table beneath the tran- 
som, and climbed atop. The opening was still a foot or so 
above my head. Being young, strong and active, I drew 
myself up by the strength of my arms so I could look — 
until my muscles gave out! 

I saw four men with lanterns moving here and there 
among some willows that bordered what seemed to be an 
irrigating ditch with water. They were armed with long 
clubs. Old Man Hooper in an overcoat stood in a com- 
manding position. They seemed to be searching. Sud- 
denly from a clump of bushes one of the men uttered an 
exclamation of triumph. I saw his long club rise and fall. 
At that instant my tired fingers slipped from the ledge and 
I had to let myself drop to the table. When a moment 
later I regained my vantage point, I found that the whole 
crew had disappeared. 

Nothing more happened that night. At times I dozed 
in a broken sort of fashion, but never actually fell into 
sound sleep. The nearest I came to slumber was just at 
dawn. I really lost all consciousness of my surroundings 
and circumstances, and was only slowly brought to myself 
by the sweet singing of innumerable birds in the willows 
outside the blank wall. I lay in a half stuper enjoying 
them. Abruptly their music ceased. I heard the soft flat 
spat of a miniature rifle. The sound was repeated. I 
climbed back on my table and drew myself again to a posi- 
tion of observation. 


22 


THE KILLER 


Old Man Hooper, armed with a .22 calibre rifle, was prowl- 
ing along the willows in which fluttered a small band of 
migratory birds. He was just drawing bead on a robin. 
At the report the bird fell. The old man darted forward 
with the impetuosity of a boy, although the bird was dead. 
An impulse of contempt curled my lips. The old man was 
childish! Why should he find pleasure in hunting such 
harmless creatures? and why should he take on triumph 
over retrieving such petty game! But when he reached 
the fallen bird he did not pick it up for a possible pot-pie as 
I thought he would do. He ground it into the soft earth 
with the heel of his boot, stamping on the poor thing again 
and again. And never have I seen on human countenance 
such an expression of satisfied malignity! 

I went to my door and looked out. You may be sure 
that the message I had received from the unfortunate young 
lady had not been forgotten; but Old Man Hooper’s cynical 
delivery of the second paper had rendered me too cautious 
to undertake anything without proper reconnaissance. 
The left wing about the courtyard seemed to contain two 
apartments — at least there were two doors, each with its 
accompanying window. The window farthest out was 
heavily barred. My thrill at this discovery was, however, 
slightly dashed by the further observation that also all the 
other windows into the courtyard were barred. Still, 
that was peculiar in itself, and not attributable — as were 
the walls and remarkable transoms — to former necessities 
of defence. My first thought was to stroll idly around the 
courtyard, thus obtaining a closer inspection. But the 
moment I stepped into the open a Mexican sauntered into 


23 


THE KILLER 


view and began to water the flowers. I can say no more 
than that in his hands that watering pot looked fairly 
silly. So I turned to the right and passed through the 
wicket gate and into the stable yard. It was natural 
enough that I should go to look after my own horse. 

The stable yard was for the moment empty; but as I 
walked across it one of its doors opened and a very little 
wizened old man emerged leading a horse. He tied the 
animal to a ring in the wall and proceeded at once to curry- 
ing. 

I had been in Arizona for ten years. During that time 
I had seen a great many very fine native horses, for the 
stock of that country is directly descended from the barbs 
of the conquistador es. But, though often well formed and 
as tough and useful as horseflesh is made, they were small. 
And no man thought of refinements in caring for any one 
of his numerous mounts. They went shaggy or smooth 
according to the season; and not one of them could have 
called a curry comb or brush out of its name. 

The beast from which the wizened old man stripped a 
bone fide horse blanket was none of these. He stood a good 
sixteen hands; his head was small and clean cut with large 
intelligent eyes and little well-set ears; his long muscular 
shoulders sloped forward as shoulders should; his barre 
was long and deep and well ribbed up; his back was flat 
and straight; his legs were clean and — what was rarely 
seen in the cow country — well proportioned — the cannon 
bone shorter than the leg bone, the ankle sloping and long 
and elastic — in short a magnificent creature whose points 
of excellence appeared one by one under close scrutiny 

24 


THE KILLER 

And the high lights of his glossy coat flashed in the sun like 
water. 

I walked from one side to the other of him marvelling. 
Not a defect, not even a blemish could I discover. The 
animal was fairly a perfect specimen of horseflesh. And I 
could not help speculating as to its use. Old Man Hooper 
had certainly never appeared with it in public; the fame of 
such a beast would have spread the breadth of the country. 

During my inspection the wizened little man continued 
his work without even a glance in my direction. He had 
on riding breeches, and leather gaiters, a plaid waistcoat 
and a peaked cap; which, when you think of it, was to 
Arizona about as incongruous as the horse. I made 
several conventional remarks of admiration, to which he 
paid not the slightest attention. But I know a bait. 

“I suppose you claim him as a Morgan,” said I. 

“Claim, is it!” grunted the little man contemptuously. 

“Well the Morgan is not a real breed anyway,” I per- 
sisted. “A sixty-fourth blood will get one registered. 
What does that amount to!” 

The little man grunted again. 

“Besides, though your animal is a good one, he is too 
short and straight in the pasterns,” said I, uttering sheer 
rank wild heresy. 

After that we talked; at first heatedly, then argumentively, 
then with entire enthusiastic agreement. I saw to that. 
Allowing yourself to be converted from an absurd opinion 
is always a sure way to favour. We ended with antiphonies 
of praise for this descendant of Justice Morgan. 

“ You’re the only man in all this God forsaken country 

25 


THE KILLER 


that has the sense of a Shanghai rooster!” cried the little 
man in a glow. “They ride horses and they know naught 
of them; and they laugh at a horseman! Your hand, sir!” 
He shook it. “And is that your horse in number four! I 
wondered! He’s the first animal I’ve seen here properly 
shod. They use the rasp, sir, on the outside the hoof, and 
on the clinches, sir; and they turn a seat for the shoe; and 
they pare out the sole and trim the frog — bah! You shoe 
your own horse, I take it. That’s right and proper! Your 
hand again, sir. Your horse has been fed this hour agone.” 

“I’ll water him, then,” said I. 

But when I led him forth I could find no trough or other 
facilities until the little man led me to a corner of the corral 
and showed me a contraption with a close fitting lid to be 
lifted. 

“ Its along of the flies,” he explained to me. “ They must 
drink, and we starve them for water here, and they go 
greedy for their poison yonder.” He indicated flat dished 
full of liquid set on shelves here and about. “We keep them 
pretty clear.” 

I walked over, curiously to examine. About and in the 
dishes were literally quarts of dead insects, not only flies, 
but bees, hornets and other sorts as well. I now understood 
the deadly silence that had so impressed me the evening 
before. This was certainly most ingenious; and I said so. 

But at my first remark the old man became obstinately 
silent, and fell again to grooming the Morgan horse. Then 
I became aware that he was addressing me in low tones out 
of the conrner of his mouth. 

“Go on; look at the horse; say something,” he muttered, 
26 


THE KILLER 


busily polishing down the animal’s hind legs. “You’re a 
man who saveys a horse — the only man I’ve seen here who 
does. Get out! Don’t ask why. You’re safe now. You’re 
not safe here another day. Water your horse; eat your 
breakfast; then get out!” 

And not another word did I extract. I watered my horse 
at the covered trough; and rather thoughtfully returned 
to the courtyard. 

I found there Old Man Hooper waiting. He looked as 
bland and innocent and harmless as the sunlight on his own 
flagstones — until he gazed up at me, and then I was as usual 
disconcerted by the blank veiled unwinking stare of his eyes. 

“Remarkably fine Morgan stallion you have, sir,” I 
greeted him. “I didn’t know such a creature existed in this 
part of the world.” 

But the little man displayed no gratification. 

“He’s well enough. I have him more to keep Tim happy 
than anything else. We’ll go in to breakfast.” 

I cast a cautious eye at the barred window in the left 
wing. The curtains were still down. At the table I ven- 
tured to ask after Miss Hooper. The old man stared at me 
up to the point of embarrassment; then replied drily that 
she always breakfasted in her room. The rest of our con- 
versation was on general topics. I am bound to say it was 
unexpectedly easy. The old man was a good talker; and 
possessed social ease and a certain charm, which he seemed 
to be trying to exert. Among other things, I remember, he 
told me of the Indian Councils he used to hold in the old 
days. 

“They were held on the willow flat; outside the east 
27 


THE KILLER 


wall,” he said. “I never allowed any of them inside the 
walls.” The suavity of his manner broke fiercely and sud- 
denly. “Everything inside the walls is mine!” he declared 
with heat. “Mine! mine! mine! Understand? I will 
not tolerate in here anything that is not mine! that does 
not obey my will! that does not come when I say come; go 
when I say go; and fall silent when I say be still! ” 

A wild and fantastic idea suddenly illuminated my under- 
standing. 

“Even the crickets, the flies, the frogs, the birds,” I said 
audaciously. 

He fixed his wildcat eyes upon me without answering. 

“And,” I went on deliberately, “who could deny your 
perfect right to do what you will with your own? And if 
they did deny that right what more natural than that they 
should be made to perish — or take their breakfasts in their 
rooms? ” 

I was never more aware of the absolute stillness of the 
house than when I uttered these foolish words. My hand 
was on the gun in my trouser-band; but even as I spoke a 
sickening realization came over me that if the old man op- 
posite so willed, I would have no slightest chance to use it. 
The air behind me seemed full of menace, and the hair 
crawled on the back of my neck. Hooper stared at me 
without sign for ten seconds; his right hand hovered above 
the polished table. Then he let it fall without giving what 
I am convinced would have been a signal. 

“Will you have more coffee — my guest?” he inquired. 
And he stressed subtly the last word in a manner that some- 
how made me just a trifle ashamed. 

28 


THE KILLER 


At the close of the meal the Mexican familiar glided into 
the room. Hooper seemed to understand the man’s pres- 
ence, for he arose at once. 

“Your horse is saddled and ready,” he told me briskly. 
“You will be wishing to start before the heat of the day. 
Your cantinas are ready on the saddle.” 

He clapped on his hat and we walked together to the 
corral. There awaited us not only my own horse, but an- 
other. The equipment of the latter was magnificently re- 
miniscent of the old California days — gaily coloured braided 
hair bridle and reins; silver conchas; stock saddle of carved 
leather with silver horn and can tel, silvered bit bars; gay 
Navajo blanket as corona; silver corners to skirts, silver 
conchas on the long tapaderos. Old Man Hooper strangely 
incongruous in his wrinkled “store clothes,” swung aboard. 

“I will ride with you for a distance,” he said. 

We jogged forth side by side at the slow Spanish trot. 
Hooper called my attention to the buildings of Fort Shatter 
glimmering part way up the slopes of the distant mountains, 
and talked entertainingly of the Indian days, and how the 
young officers used to ride down to his ranch for music. 

After a half hour thus we came to the long string of wire 
and the huge awkward gate that marked the limit of 
Hooper’s “pasture.” Of course the open range was his real 
pasture; but every ranch enclosed a thousand acres or so 
somewhere near the home station to be used for horses in 
active service. Before I could anticipate him, he had sidled 
his horse skillfully alongside the gate and was holding it 
open for me to pass. I rode through the opening mur- 
muring thanks and an apology. The old man followed me 

29 


THE KILLER 

through, and halted me by placing his horse square across 
the path of mine. 

“You are now, sir, outside my land and therefore no 
longer my guest,” he said, and the snap in his voice was like 
the crackling of electricity. “Don’t let me ever see you 
here again. You are keen and intelligent. You spoke the 
truth a short time since. You were right. I tolerate noth- 
ing in my place that is not my own — no man, no animal, no 
bird, no insect nor reptile even — that will not obey my 
lightest order. And these creatures, great or small, who 
will not — or even cannot — obey my orders must go — or die. 
Understand me clearly? 

“You have come here, actuated, I believe by idle curios- 
ity, but without knowledge. You made yourself — ignor- 
antly — my guest; and a guest is sacred. But now you know 
my customs and ideas. I am telling you. Never again 
can you come here in ignorance; therefore never again can 
you come here as a guest; and never again will you pass 
freely.” 

He delivered this drily, precisely, with frost in his tones, 
staring balefully into my eyes. So taken aback was I by 
this unleashed hostility that for a moment I had nothing 
to say. 

“Now, if you please I will take both notes from that poor 
idiot: the one I handed you and the one she handed you.” 

I realized suddenly that the two lay together in the breast 
pocket of my shirt; that though alike in tenor, they differed 
in phrasing; and that I had no means of telling one from 
the other. 

“The paper you gave me I read and threw away,” I 


30 


THE KILLER 


stated boldly. “It meant nothing to me. As to any other ^ 
I do not know what you are talking about.” 

“You are lying,” he said calmly, as merely stating a fact. 
“It does not matter. It is my fancy to collect them. I 
should have liked to add yours. Now get out of this, and 
don’t let me see your face again! ” 

“Mr. Hooper,” said I, “I thank you for your hospitality, 
which has been complete and generous. You have pointed 
out the fact that I am no longer your guest. I can therefore 
with propriety tell you that your ideas and prejudices are 
noted with interest; your wishes are placed on file for future 
reference; I don’t give a damn for your orders; and you can 
go to hell!” 

“Fine flow of language. Educated cowpuncher,” said 
the old man drily. “You are warned. Keep off. Don’t 
meddle with what does not concern you. And if the rumour 
get back to me that you’ve been speculating or talking or 
criticizing ” 

“Well?” I challenged. 

“I’ll have you killed,” he said simply; so simple that I 
knew he meant it. 

“You are foolish to make threats,” I rejoined. “Two 
can play at that game. You drive much alone.” 

“I do not work alone,” he hinted darkly. “The day 
my body is found dead of violence, that day marks the doom 
of a long list of men whom I consider inimical to me — like, 
perhaps, yourself.” He stared me down with his un- 
winking gaze. 


3i 


CHAPTER V 


I returned to Box Springs at a slow jog trot, thinking 
things over. Old Man Hooper’s warning sobered, but 
did not act as a deterrent of my intention to continue with 
the adventure. But how? I could hardly storm the fort 
single handed and carry off the damsel is distress. On the 
evidence I possessed I could not even get together a storm- 
ing party. The cowboy is chivalrous enough; but human. 
He would not uprise spontaneously to the point of war on 
the mere statement of incarcerated beauty — especially as 
ill-treatment was not apparent. I would hardly last long 
enough to carry out the necessary proselyting campaign. 
It never occurred to me to doubt that Hooper would 
fulfill his threat of having me killed, or his ability to do 
so. 

So when the men drifted in two by two at dusk, I said 
nothing of my real adventures, and answered their chaff 
in kind. 

“He played the piano for me,” I told them the literal 
truth, “ and had me in to the parlour and dining room. He 
gave me a room to myself with a bed and sheets; and he 
rode out to his pasture gate with me to say good-bye,” and 
thereby I was branded a delicious liar. 

“They took me into the bunk house and fed me, all 
right,” said Windy Bill, “and fed my horse. Ane next 


32 


THE KILLER 


morning that old Mexican Joe of his just nat’rally up and 
kicked me off the premises.” 

“ Wonder you didn’t shoot him,” I exclaimed. 

“Oh, he didn’t use his foot. But he sort of let me know 
that the place was unhealthy to visit more’n once. And 
somehow I seen he meant it; and I ain’t never had no call 
to go back.” 

I mulled over the situation all day, and then could stand 
it no longer. On the dark of the evening I rode to within a 
couple of miles of Hooper’s Ranch, tied my horse, and 
scouted carefully forward afoot. For one thing I wanted 
to find out whether the system of high transoms extended 
to all the rooms, including that in the left wing: for another 
I wanted to determine the “lay of the land” on that blank 
side of the house. I found my surmise correct as to the 
transoms. As to the blank side of the house, that looked 
down on a wide green moist patch and the irrigating ditch 
with its stunted willows. Then painstakingly I went over 
every inch of the terrain about the ranch; and might just 
as well have investigated the external economy of a mud 
turtle. Realizing that nothing was to be gained in this 
manner, I withdrew to my strategic base where I rolled 
down and slept until daylight. Then I saddled and re- 
turned toward the ranch. 

I had not ridden two miles, however, before in the boul- 
der-strewn wash of Arroyo Seco I met Jim Starr, one of our 
men. 

“Look here,” he said to me. “Jed sent me up to look 
at the Elder Springs, but my hoss has done cast a shoe. 
Cain’t you ride up there?” 


33 


THE KILLER 


“1 cannot,” said I promptly. “Eve been out all night 
and had no breakfast. But you can have my horse.” 

So we traded horses and separated, each our own way. 
They sent me out by Coyote Wells with two other men, and 
we did not get back until the following evening. 

The ranch was buzzing with excitement. Jim Starr had 
not returned, although the ride to Elder Springs was only 
a two hour affair. After a night had elapsed, and still he 
did not return, two men had been sent. They found him 
half way to Elder Springs with a bullet hole in his back. 
The bullet was that of a rifle. Being plainsmen they had 
done good detective work of its kind, and had determined — 
by the direction of the bullet’s flight as evidenced by the 
wound — that it had been fired from a point above. The 
only point above was the low “ rim ” that ran for miles down 
the Soda Springs Valley. It was of black lava and showed 
no tracks. The men, with a true sense of values, had con- 
tented themselves with covering Jin Starr with a blanket, 
and then had ridden the rim for some miles in both direc- 
tions looking for a trail. None could be discovered. By 
this they deduced that the murder was not the result of 
chance encounter, but had been so carefully planned that 
no trace would be left of the murderer or murderers. 

No theory could be imagined save the rather vague one 
of personal enmity. Jim Starr was comparatively a new- 
comer with us. Nobody knew anything much about him 
or his relations. Nobody questioned the only man who 
could have told anything; and that man did not volunteer 
to tell what he knew. 

I refer to myself. The thing was sickeningly clear to me. 


34 


THE KILLER 


Jim starr had nothing to do with it. I was the man for 
whom that bullet from the rim had been intended. I was 
the unthinking shortsighted fool who had done Jim Starr 
to his death. It had never occurred to me that my mid- 
night reconnoitering would leave tracks, that Old Man 
Hooper’s suspicious vigilance would even look for tracks* 
But given that vigilance, the rest followed plainly enough. 
A skillful trailer would have found his way to where I had 
mounted ; he would have followed my horse to Arroyo Seco 
where I had met with Jim Starr. There he would have 
visualized a rider on a horse without one shoe coming as far 
as the Arroyo, meeting me, and returning whence he had 
come; and met at once turning off at right angles. His 
natural conclusion would be that a messenger had had 
brought me orders and had returned. The fact that we 
had shifted mounts he could not have read, for the reason — 
as I only too distinctly remembered — that we had made the 
change in the boulder and rock stream bed, which would 
show no clear traces. 

The thought that poor Jim Starr, whom I had well liked, 
had been sacrificed for me, rendered my ride home with the 
convoy more deeply thoughtful than even the tragic circum- 
stances warranted. We laid his body in the small office? 
pending Buck Johnson’s return from town, and ate our be- 
lated meal in silence. Then we gathered around the corner 
fireplace in the bunk house, lit our smokes, and talked it 
over. Jed Parker joined us. Usually he sat with our owner 
in the office. 

Hardly had we settled ourselves to discussion when the 
door opened and Buck Johnson came in. We had been so 

35 


THE KILLER 


absorbed that no one had heard him ride up. He leaned 
his forearm against the doorway at the height of his head 
and surveyed the silenced group rather ironically. 

“ Lucky I’m not nervous and jumpy by nature,” he ob- 
served. “I’ve seen dead men before. Still, next time you 
want to leave one in my office after dark, I wish you’d put 
a light with him, or tack up a sign, or even leave somebody 
to tell me about it. I’m sorry it’s Starr and not that thought- 
ful old horned toad in the corner.” 

Jed looked foolish, but said nothing. Buck came in, 
closed the door, and took a chair square in front of the fire- 
place. The glow of the leaping flames was full upon him. 
His strong face and bulky figure were revealed, while the 
other men sat in half-shadow. He at once took charge of 
the discussion. 

“How was he killed?” he enquired, “bucked off?” 

“Shot,” replied Jed Parker. 

Buck’s eyebrows came together. 

! “Who?” he asked. 

He was told the circumstances, as far as they were known; 
but declined to listen to any of the various deductions and 
surmises. 

“Deliberate murder and not a chance quarrel,” he con- 
cluded. “He wasn’t even within hollering distance of that 
rim-rock. Anybody know anything about Starr?” 

“He’s been with us about five weeks,” proffered Jed, as 
foreman. “ Said he came from Texas.” 

“He was a Texican,” corroborated one of the other men, 
“I rode with him considerable.” 

“What enemies did he have?” asked Buck. 

36 




THE KILLER 


But it developed that, as far as these men knew, Jim Starr 
had no enemies. He was a quiet sort of a fellow. He had 
been to town once or twice. Of course he might have made 
an enemy, but it was not likely; he had always behaved 
himself. Somebody would have known of any trouble 

“ Maybe somebody followed him fr<? n Texas.” 

“More likely the usuaLlocal work,” Buck interrupted. 
“This man Starr ever met up with Old Man Hooper or 
Hooper’s men?” 

But here was another impasse. Starr had been over on 
the Slick Rock ever since his arrival. I could have thrown 
some light on the matter, perhaps; but new thoughts were 
coming to me and I kept silence. 

Shortly Buck Johnson went out. His departure loosened 
tongues, among them mine. 

“I don’t see why you stand for this old hombre if he’s as 
bad as you say, ’ ’ I broke in. ‘ ‘ Why don’t some of you brave 
young warriors just naturally pot him?” 

And that started a new line of discussion that left me even 
more thoughtful than before. I knew these men intimately. 
There was not a coward among them. They had been tried 
and hardened and tempered in the fierceness of the desert. 
Any one of them would have twisted the tail of the devil 
himself ; but they were off Old Man Hooper. They did not 
make that admission in so many words; far from it. And I 
valued my hide enough to refrain from pointing the fact. But 
that fact remained; they were off Old Man Hooper. Fur- 
thermore, by the time they had finished recounting in inti- 
mate detail some scores of anecdotes dealing with what 
happened when old man Hooper winked his wildcat eye, I 

37 


THE KILLER 


began in spite of myself to share some of their sentiments. 
For no matter how flagrant the killing, nor how certain 
morally the origin, never had the most brilliant nor the most 
painstaking effort been able to connect with the slayers nor 
their instigator. He worked in the dark by hidden hands; 
but the death from the hands was as certain as the rattle- 
snake’s. Certain of his victims, by luck or cleverness? 
seemed to have escaped sometimes as many as three or four 
attempts but in the end the old man’s Killer’s got them. 

A Jew drummer who had grossly insulted Hooper in the 
Lone Star Emporium had, on learning the enormity of his 
crime, fled to San Francisco. Three months later Soda 
Springs awoke to find pasted by an unknown hand on the 
window of the Emporium a newspaper account of that Jew 
drummer’s taking off. The newspaper could offer no theory 
and merely recited the fact that the man suffered from a 
heavy-calibred bullet. But always the talk turned back 
at last to that crowning atrocity, the Boomerang, with its 
windrows of little calves, starved for water, lying against 
the fence. 

“ Yes,” someone unexpectedly answered my first question 
at last, “someone could just naturally pot him easy enough. 
But I got a hunch that he couldn’t get fur enough away to 
feel safe afterwards. The fellow with a hankering for a 
good useful kind of suicide could get it right there. Any 
candidates? You-all been looking kinda mournful lately, 
Windy; s’pose you be the human benefactor and rid the 
world of this yere reptile.” 

“Me?” said Windy with vast surprise, “me mournful? 
Why I sing at my work like a little dicky bird. I’m so 

38 


THE KILLER 

pluirfc cheerful bull frogs ain’t in it. You ain’t talking to 
me!” 

But I wanted one more point of information before the 
conversation veered. 

“Does his daughter ever ride out?” I asked. 

“Daughter?” they echoed in surprise. 

“Or niece, or whoever she is,” I supplemented impa- 
tiently. 

“There’s no woman there; not even a Mex,” said one; 
and “Did you see any sign of any woman?” keenly from 
Windy Bill. 

But I was not minded to be drawn. 

“ Somebody told me about a daughter, or niece, or some- 
thing,” I said vaguely. 

i 


r 


39 


CHAPTER VI 


I lay in my bunk and cast things up in my mind. The 
patch of moonlight from the window moved slowly across 
the floor. One of the men was snoring, but with regularity, 
so he did not annoy me. The outside silence w T as softly 
musical with all the little voices that at Hooper’s had so dis- 
concertingly lacked. There were crickets — I had forgotten 
about them — and frogs, and a hoot owl, and various such 
matters ; beneath whose influence customarily my conscious- 
ness merged into sleep so sweetly that I never knew when I 
had lost them. But I was never wider awake than now; 
and never had I done more concentrated thinking. 

For the moment, and for the moment, only, I was safe. 
Old Man Hooper thought he had put me out of the way. 
How long would he continue to think so? how long before 
his men would bring true word of the mistake that had been 
made? Perhaps the following day would inform him that 
Jim Starr and not myself had been reached by his killer’s 
bullet. Then, I had no doubt, a second attempt would be 
made on my life. Therefore whatever I was going to do- 
must be done quickly. 

I had the choice of war or retreat. Would it do me any 
good to retreat? There was the Jew drummer who was 
killed in San Francisco; and others whose fates I have not 
detailed. But why should he particularly desire my ex- 


40 


THE KILLER 


tinction? What had I done or what knowledge did I pos- 
sess that had not been equally done and known by any 
chance visitor to the Ranch? I remember the notes in my 
shirt pocket; and, at the risk of awakening some of my com- 
rades, I lit a candle and studied them. They were undoubt- 
edly written by the same hand. To whom had the other 
been smuggled? and by what means had it come into old 
man Hooper’s possession? The answer hit me so suddenly; 
and seemed intrinsically so absurd, that I blew out the 
candle and lay again on my back to study it. 

And the more I studied it, the less absurd it seemed, not 
by the light of reason, but by the feeling of pure intuition. 
I knew it as sanely as I knew that the moon made that patch 
of light through the window. The man to whom that other 
note had been surreptitiously conveyed by the sad-eyed 
beautiful girl of the iron-barred chamber was dead; and he 
was dead because Old Man Hooper had so willed. And 
the former owners of the other notes of the “Collection” 
concerning which the old man had spoken were dead too — 
dead for the same reason and by the same hidden hands. 

“Why? Because they knew about the girl? Unlikely. 
Without doubt Hooper had, as in my case, himself made 
possible that knowledge. But I remembered many things; 
and I knew that my flash of intuition, absurd as it might 
seem at first sight, was true. I recalled the swift, darting 
onslaughts with the fly whackers, the fierce, vindictive 
slaughter of the frogs, his early morning pursuit of the flock 
of migrating birds. Especially came clear to my recollec- 
tion the words spoken at breakfast: 

“Everything inside the walls is mine! Mine! Mine! 


41 


THE KILLER 


Understand? I will not tolerate anything that is not mine! 
that does not obey my will ; that does not come when I say 
come; go when I say go; and fall silent when I say be still !” 

My crime, the crime of these men from whose dead hands 
the girl’s appeals had been taken for the “Collection,” was 
that of curiosity! The old man would within his own do- 
main reign supreme, in the mental as in the physical world. 
The chance cowboy, genuinely desirous only of a resting 
place for the night, rode away unscathed; but he whom the 
old man convicted of a prying spirit committed a lese- 
majeste that could not be forgiven. And I had made many 
tracks during my night reconnaissance. 

And the same flash of insight showed me that I would be 
followed 'wherever I went; and the thing that convinced my 
intuitions — not my reason — of this was the recollection of 
the old man stamping the remains of the poor little bird into 
the mud by the willows. I saw again the insane rage of his 
face; and I felt cold fingers touching my spine. 

On this I went abruptly and unexpectedly to sleep, after 
the fashion of youth; and did not stir until Sing, the cook, 
routed us out before dawn. We were not to ride the range 
that day because of Jim Starr, but Sing was a person of 
fixed habits. I plunged my head into the face of the dawn 
with a new and light-hearted confidence. It was one of 
those clear nile-green sunrises whose lucent depths go back 
a million miles or so ; and my spirit followed on wings. Gone 
were at once my fine-spun theories and my forebodings of 
the night. Life was clean and clear and simple. Jim Starr 
had probably some personal enemy. Old Man Hooper was 
undoubtedly a mean old lunatic, and dangerous; very likely 


42 


THE KILLER 


he would attempt to do me harm, as he said, if I bothered 

him again, but as for following me to the ends of the earth 

The girl was a different matter. She required thought. 
So, as I was hungry and the day sparkling, I postponed her 
and went in to breakfast. 


43 


CHAPTER VII 


By the time the coroner’s inquest and the funeral in town 
were over it was three o’clock of the afternoon. As I only 
occasionally managed Soda Springs I felt no inclination to 
hurry on the return journey. My intention was to watch 
the Overland through, to make some small purchases at the 
Lone Star Emporium, to hoist one or two at Magrue’s and 
to dine sumptuously at the best — and only — hotel. A pro- 
gram simple in theme but susceptible to variations. 

The latter began early. After posing kiddishly as a rough, 
woolly romantic cowboy before the passengers of the Over- 
land, I found myself chaperoning a visitor to our midst. By 
sheer accident the visitor had singled me out for an inquiry. 

“Can you tell me how to get to Hooper’s Ranch?” he 
asked. 

So I annexed him promptly in hope of developments. 

He was certainly no prize package, for he was small, pale, 
nervous, shifty, and rat-like; and neither his hands nor his 
eyes were still for an instant. Further to set him apart he 
wore a hard-boiled hat, a flaming tie, a checked vest, a coat 
cut too tight for even his emaciated little figure, and long 
toothpick shoes of patent leather. A fairer mark for cow- 
boy humour would be difficult to find ; but I had a personal 
interest and a determined character so the gang took a look 
at me and bided their time. 


44 


THE KILLER 


But immediately I discovered I was going to have my 
hands full. It seemed that the little shifty rat-faced man 
had been possessed of a small handbag which the negro 
porter had failed to put off the train; and which was of tre- 
mendous importance. At the discovery it was lacking my 
new friend went into hysterics. He ran a few feet after the 
disappearing train; he called upon high heaven to destroy 
utterly the race of negro porters; he threatened terrible 
reprisals against a delinquent railroad company; he seized 
upon a bewildered station agent over whom he poured his 
troubles in one gush; and he lifted up his voice and wept — 
literally wept! This to the vast enjoyment of my friends* 
“ What ails the small party? ” asked Windy Bill coming up. 
“ He’s lost the family jewels ! ” “The papers are missing.” 
“Sandy here (meaning me) won’t give him his bottle and 
it’s past feeding time.” “Sandy’s took away his stick of 
candy and won’t give it back,” “The little son-of-a-gun’s 
just remembered that he give the nigger porter two bits,” 
were some of the replies he got. 

On the general principle of “never start anything you 
can’t finish,” I managed to quell the disturbance; I got a 
description of the bag; and arranged to have it wired for at 
the next station. On receiving the news that it could not 
possibly be returned before the following morning, my pro- 
tege showed signs of another outburst. To prevent it I 
took him firmly by the arm and led him across to McGrue’s. 
He was shivering as though from a violent chill. 

The multitude trailed interestedly after; but I took my 
man into one of McGrue’s private rooms and firmly closed 
the door. 


45 


THE KILLER 


“Put that under your belt,” I invited, pouring him a half 
tumbler of McGrue’s best, “and pull yourself together.” 

He smelled it. 

“It’s only whiskey,” he observed mournfully, “That 
won’t help much.” 

“You don’t know this stuff,” I encouraged. 

He took off the half tumbler without a blink, shook his 
head, and poured himself another. In spite of his spceti- 
cism I thought his nervousness became less marked. 

“Now,” said I,” if you don’t mind, why do you descend 
on a peaceful community and stir it all up because of the 
derelictions of an absent coon? and why do you set such 
store by your travelling bag? and why do you weep in the 
face of high heaven and outraged manhood? And why do 
you want to find Hooper’s Ranch? And why are you and 
your vaudeville make up? ” 

But he proved singularly embarrassed and nervous and 
uncommunicative, darting his glance here and there about 
him, twisting his hands, never by any chance meeting my 
eye. I leaned back and surveyed him in considerable dis- 
gust. 

“Look here, brother,” I pointed out to him. “You don’t 
seem to realize. A man like you can’t get away with him- 
self irnthis country except behind footlights — and there ain’t 
any footlights. All I got to do is to throw open yonder 
door and withdraw my beneficent protection and you will 
be set upon by a pack of ravening wolves with their own 
ideas of humour, among whom I especially mention one 
Windy Bill. I’m about the only thing that looks like a 
friend you’ve got.” 


46 


THE KILLER 


He caught at the last sentence only. 

“You my friend?” he said breathlessly, “then tell me: 
is there a doctor around here?” 

“No,” said I, looking at him closely, “not this side of 
Tucsan. Are you sick? ” 

“ Is there a drug store in town, then? ” 

“Nary drug store.” 

He jumped to his feet, knocking over his chair as he did so. 

“My God!” he cried in uncontrollable excitement, “I’ve 
got to get my bag! How far is it to the next station where 
they’re going to put it off? Ain’t there some way of getting 
there? I got to get to my bag.” 

“It’s near to forty miles,” I replied, leaning back. 

“And there’s no drug store here? What kind of a bum 
tank town is this, anyhow. ” 

“They keep a few patent medicines and such over at the 

Lone Star Emporium ” I started to tell him. I never 

had a chance to finish my sentence. He darted around the 
table, grabbed me by the arm and urged me to my feet. 

“Show me!” he panted. 

We sailed through the bar room under full head of steam, 
leaving the gang staring after us open-mouthed. I could 
feel we were exciting considerable public interest. At the 
Lone Star Emporium the little freak looked wildly about 
him until his eyes fell on the bottle shelves. Then he rushed 
right in behind the counter and began to paw them over. 
I headed off Sol Levi, who was coming front making war 
medicine. 

“Loco,” says I to him. “If there’s any damage, I’ll 
settle.” 


47 


THE KILLER 


It looked like there was going to be damage all right, the 
way he snatched up one bottle after the other, read the 
labels, and thrust them one side. At last he uttered a crow 
of delight, just like a kid. 

“How many you got of these? ” he demanded, holding 
up a bottle of Soothing Syrup. 

t “You only take a tablespoon of that stuff ” began Sol. 

“How may you got — how much are they?” interrupted 
the stranger. 

“Six — three dollars a bottle,” says Sol, boosting the price. 

The little man peeled a twenty off a roll of bills and threw 
it down. 

“Keep the other five bottles for me?” he cried in a shaky 
voice, and ran out, with me after him, forgetting his change 
and to shut the door behind us. 

Back through McGrue’s bar we trailed like one of these 
moving picture chases and into the back room. 

“Well, here we are home again,” said I. 

The stranger grabbed a glass and filled it half full of 
Soothing Syrup. 

“Here, you aren’t going to drink that!” I yelled at him, 
“Didn’t you hear Sol tell you the dose is a spoonful? ” 

But he didn’t pay me any attention. His hand was shak- 
ing so he could hardly connect with his own mouth, and he 
was panting as though he’d run a race. 

“Well, no accounting for tastes,” I said. “WTere do 
you want me to ship your remains?” 

He drank her down, shut his eyes a few minutes, and held 
still. He had quit his shaking, and he looked me square 
in the face. 


48 


THE KILLER 


“ What’s it to you?” he demanded, “Huh? Ain't you 
never seen a guy hit the hop before? ” 

He stared at me so truculently that I was moved to right- 
eous wrath; and I answered him back. I told him what I 
thought of him and his clothes and his conduct at quite some 
length. When I had finished he seemed to have gained a 
new attitude of aggravating wise superiority. 

“That's all right, kid; that’s all right,” he assured me, 
“ keep your hair on. I ain’t such a bad scout; but you gotta 
get used to me. Give me my hop and I’m all right. Now 
about this Hooper; you say you know him?” 

“None better,” I rejoined. “But what’s that to you? 
That’s a fair question.” 

He bored me with his beady rat eyes for several seconds. 

“Friend of yours?” he asked briefly. 

Something in the intonations of his voice induced me to 
frankness. 

“I have good cause to think he’s trying to kill me,” I 
replied. 

He produced a pocket book, fumbled in it for a moment, 
and laid before me a clipping. It was from the Want column 
of a newspaper, and read as follows: 

“ A.A.B. — Will deal with you on your terms. H.H.” 

“A.A.B. that’s me — Artie Brower. And H.H. — that’s 
him — Henry Hooper,” he explained. “And that liP piece 
of paper means that’s he’s caved, come off, war’s over. 
Means I’m rich, that I can have my own ponies, if I want 
to, ’stead of touting somebody else’s old dogs. It means 
that I got old H.H. — Henry Hooper — where thej hair is 
short, and he’s got to come my way!” 

49 


THE KILLER 


His eyes were glittering restlessly, and the pupils seemed 
to be unduly dilated. The whiskey and opium together — 
probably an unaccustomed combination — were too much 
for his ill-balanced control. Every indication of his face 
and his narrow eyes was for secrecy and craft; yet for the 
moment he was opening up to me, a stranger, like an oyster. 
Even my inexperience could see that much, and I eagerly 
took advantage of my chance. 

“You are a horseman, then?” I suggested. 

“Me a horseman? Say, kid, you didn’t get my name. 
Brower — Artie Brower. Why, I’ve ridden more winning 
races than any other man on the Pacific Coast. That’s how 
I got onto old H.H. I rode for him. He knows a good 
horse all right — the old skunk. Used to have a pretty string.” 

‘‘He’s got at least one good Morgan stallion now,” said I. 
“I’ve seen him at Hooper’s Ranch.” 

“I know the old crock- trotter,” scorned the true riding 
jockey. “Probably old Tim Westmore is hanging around 
too. He’s in love with that horse.” 

“Is he in love with Hooper, too?” I asked. 

“Just like I am,” said the jockey with a leer. 

“So you’re going to be rich,” said I. “How’s that?” 

He leered at me again, going foxy. 

“Don’t you wish you knew! But I’ll tell you this: old 
H.H. is going to give me all I want — just because I ask him 
to.” 

I took another tack, affecting incredulity. 

“The hell he is. He’ll hand you over to Ramon and that 
will be the last of a certain jockey.” 

“No, he won’t do no such trick. I’ve fixed that; and he 


5 ° 


THE KILLER 

knows it. If he kills me, he’ll lose all he’s got ’stead of only 
part.” 

“You’re drunk or dreaming,” said I. “ If you bother him, 
he’ll just plain have you killed. That’s a little way of his.’> 

“And if he does a friend of mine will just go to a certain 
place and get certain papers and give ’em to a certain lawyer 
— and then where’s old H.H.? And he knows it, dam well. 
And he’s going to be good to Artie and give him what he 
wants. We’ll get along fine. Took him a long time to 
come to it; but I didn’t take no chances while he was mak- 
ing up his mind; you can bet on that.” 

“Blackmail, eh?” I said, with just enough of a sneer to 
fire him. 

“Blackmail nothing!” he shouted. “It ain’t blackamil 
to take away what don’t belong to a man at all! ” 

“What don’t belong to him?” 

“Nothing. Not a damn thing except his money. This 
ranch. The oil wells in California. The cattle. Not a 
dam thing. That was the agreement with his pardner^when 
they split. And I’ve got the agreement! Now what you 
got to say?” 

“Say? Why its loco ! Why doesn’t the pardner raise a 
row?” 

“He’s dead.” 

“His heirs then?” 

“He hasn’t got but one heir — his daughter.” My 
heart skipped a beat in the amazement of a half ideas. 
“And she knew nothing about the agreement. Nobody 
knows but old H.H. — and me.” He sat back, visibly 
gloating over me. But his mood was passing. His earlier 

5i 


THE KILLER 


exhilaration had died; and with it was dying the expansive- 
ness of his confidence. The triumph of his last speech 
savoured he slipped again into his normal self. He looked 
&t me suspiciously, and raised his whiskey to cover his con- 
fusion. 

“What’s it to yuh, anyway?” he muttered into his glass 
darkly. His eyes were again shifting here and there; and 
his lips were snarled back malevolently to show his teeth. 

At this precise moment the lords of chance willed Windy 
Bill and others to intrude on our privacy by opening the 
door and hurling several whiskey-flavoured sarcasms at the 
pair of us. The jockey seemed to explode after the fashion 
of an over-inflated ball. He squeaked like a rat, leaped to 
his feet, hurled the chair on which he had been sitting 
crash against the door from which Windy Bill et al had 
withdrawn hastily, and ended by producing a small wicked- 
looking automatic — then a new and strange weapon — and 
rushing out into the main saloon. There he announced 
that he was known to the cognoscenti as Art the Blood and 
was a city gunman in comparison with which these plain 
so-called bad men were as sucking doves to the untamed 
eagle. Thence he glanced briefly at their ancestry as far 
as known; and ended by rushing forth in the general direction 
of McCloud’s Hotel. 

“Suffering giraffes!” gasped Windy Bill after the whirl- 
wind had passed. “Was that the scared little rabbit that 
wept all them salt tears over at the depot? What brand 
of licker did you feed him, Sandy?” 

I silently handed him the bottle. 

“ Soothing Syrup — my God ! ” said Windy in hushed tones. 

52 


CHAPTER VIII 


At that epoch I prided myself on being a man of resource; 
and I proceeded to prove it in a fashion that even now fills 
me with satisfaction. I annexed the remainder of that 
bottle of soothing syrup ; I went to Sol Levi and easily pro- 
cured delivery of the other five. Then I strolled peacefully 
to supper over at McCloud’s hotel. Pathological knowl- 
edge of dope fiends was outside my ken; — I could not guess 
how soon my man would need another dose of his “hop,” 
but I was positively sure that another would be needed. 
Inquiry of McCloud elicited the fact that the ex-jockey had 
swallowed a hasty meal and had immediately retired to 
Room 4. I found Room 4 unlocked, and Brower lying fully 
clothed sound asleep across the bed. I did not disturb him, 
except that I robbed him of his pistol. All looked safe for 
awhile; but just to be certain I took Room 6, across the 
narrow hall, and left both doors open. McCloud’s hotel 
never did much of a room business. By midnight the cow- 
boys would be on their way for the ranches. Brower and 
myself were the only occupants of the second floor. 

For two hours I smoked and read. The ex-jockey did 
not move a muscle. Then I went to bed and to a sound 
sleep; but I set my mind like an alarm clock, so that the 
slightest move from the other room would have fetched me 
broad awake. City-bred people may not know that this 

53 


THE KILLER 


can be done by most outdoor men. I have listened sub- 
consciously to horsebells for so many nights, for example 
that even on stormy nights the cessation of that faint twinkle 
will awaken me, while the crash of the elements or even the 
all of a tree would not in the slightest disturb my tired 
slumbers. So now, although the songs and stamping and 
racket of the revellers below stairs in McCloud’s bar did 
not for one second prevent my falling into deep and dream- 
less sleep, Brower’s softest tread would have reached my 
consciousness. 

However, he slept right through the night, and was still 
dead to the world when I slipped out at six o’clock to meet 
the east-bound train. The bag — a small black Gladstone — 
was aboard in charge of the baggagemen. I had no great 
difficulty in getting it from my friend, the station agent. 
Had he not seen me herding the locoed stranger? I secreted 
the black bag with the five full bottles of soothing syrup, 
slipped the half-emptied bottle in my pocket, and returned 
to the hotel. There I ate breakfast, and sat down for a 
comfortable chat with McCloud wffiile awaiting results. 

Got them very promptly. About eight o’clock Brower 
came downstairs. He passed through the office, nodding 
curtly to McCloud and me, and into the dining room 
where he drank several cups of coffee. Thence he passed 
down the street toward Sol Levi’s. He emerged rather 
hurriedly and slanted across to the station. 

“In about two minutes,” I observed to McCloud, “you’re 
going to observe yon butterfly turn into a stinging lizard. 
He’s going to head in this direction; and he’ll probably aim 
to climb my hump. Such being the case, and the affair 

54 


THE KILLER 


being private, you’ll do me a favour by supervising something 
in some remote corner of the premises.” 

“Sure,” said McCloud, “I’ll go twist that Chink washee- 
man. Been intending to for a week.” And he stumped 
out on his wooden foot. 

The comet hit at precisely 7 142 by McCloud’s big clock. 
Its head was Brower at high speed and tension; and its tail 
was the light alkali dust of Arizona mingled with the station 
agent. No unresistible force and immovable body prop- 
osition in mine; I gave to the impact. 

“Why, sure, I got ’em for you,” I answered, “You left 
your dope lying around loose so I took care of it for you. 
As for your bag; you seemed to set such store by it that I 
got that for you, too.” 

Which deflated that particular enterprise for the mo- 
ment anyway. The station agent, too mad to spit, de- 
parted before he should be tempted beyond his strength 
to resist homicide. 

“I suppose you’re taking care of my gun for me, too,’’ 
said Brower; but his irony was weak. He was evidently 
off the boil. 

“Your gun?” I echoed. “Have you lost your gun?” 

He passed his hand across his eyes. His super-excite- 
ment had passed, leaving him weak and nervous. Now was 
the time for my counter-attack. 

“Here’s your gun,” said I, “didn’t want to collect any 
lead while you were excited, and I’ve got your dope,” I 
repeated — “in a safe place,” I added, “and you’ll not see 
any of it again until you answer me a few questions, and 
answer them straight.” 


55 


THE KILLER 


“If you think you can roll me for blackmail/' he came 
back with some decision, “you're left a mile." 

“I don’t want a cent; but I do want a talk." 

“Shoot," said he. 

“How often do you have to have this dope — for the best 
results; and how much of it at a shot? " 

He stared at me for a moment; then laughed. 

“What’s it to yuh? " he repeated his formula. 

“I want to know." 

“I get to needing it about once a day. Three grains will 
carry me by." 

“All right; that’s what I want to know. Now listen to 
me. I’m custodian of this dope, and you’ll get your regular 
ration as long as you stick with me." 

“ I can always hop a train. This ain’t the only hamlet on 
the map," he reminded me. 

“That’s always what you can do, if you find we can’t 
work together. That’s where you’ve got me if my proposi- 
tion doesn’t sound good." 

“What is your proposition?" he asked after a moment. 

“Before I tell you, I’m going to give you a few pointers 
on what you’re up against. I don’t know how much you 
know about Old Man Hooper, but I’ll bet there’s plenty 
you don't know about." 

I proceeded to tell him something of the old man’s 
methods, from the “boomerang" to vicarious murder. 

“And he gets away with it?" said Brower when I had 
finished. 

“He certainly does," said I. “Now," I continued, 
“You may be solid as a brick church, and your plans may 

56 


THE KILLER 


be water-tight; and old Hooper may kill the fatted four- 
year-old, for all I know. But if I were you, I wouldn’t go 
sasshaying all alone out to Hooper’s Ranch. It’s altogether 
too blame confiding and innocent.” 

“If anything happens to me, I’ve left directions for those 
contracts to be recorded,” he pointed out. “Old Hooper 
knows that.” 

“Oh, sure!” I replied, “just like that! But one day your 
trustworthy friend back yonder will get a letter in your well- 
known hand-write that will say that all is well and the goose 
hangs high, that the old man is a prince and has come 
through, and that in accordance with the nice, friendly 
agreement you have reached he — your friend — will hand 
over the contract to a very respectable lawyer herein named, 
and so forth and so on, ending with your equally well-known 
John Hancock.” 

“Well, that’s all right.” 

“I hadn’t finished the picture. In the meantime, you 
will be getting out of it just one good swift kick; and that 
is all.” 

“I shouldn’t write any such letter. Not ’til I felt the 
feel of the dough.” 

“Not at first you wouldn’t,” I said softly. “Certainly 
not at first. But after a while you would. These renegade 
Mexicans — like Hooper’s Ramon, for example — know a lot 
of rotten little tricks. They drive pitch-pine splinters into 
your legs and set fire to them, for one thing. Or make 
small cuts in you with a knife, and load them up with powder 
squibs in oiled paper — so the blood won’t wet them — and 
touch them off. And so on. When you’ve been shown 


57 


THE KILLER 


about ten per cent, of what old Ramon knows about such 
things, you’ll write most any kind of a letter.” 

“My God!” he muttered, thrusting the ridiculous derby 
to the back of his head. 

“So you see you’d look sweet walking trustfully into 
Hooper’s claws. That’s what that newspaper ad was meant 
for. And when the respectable lawyer wrote that the con- 
tract had been delivered, do you know what would happen 
to you? ” 

The ex-jockey shuddered. 

“But you’ve only told me part of what I want to know,” 
I pursued. “You got me side-tracked. This daughter of 
the dead partner — this girl, what about her? Where is she 
now?” 

“Europe, I believe.” 

“When did she go?” 

“About three months ago.” 

“Any other relatives? ” 

“Not that I know of.” 

“H’m,” I pondered. “What does she look like? ” 

“She’s about medium height, dark, good figure, good- 
looking all right. She’s got eyes wide apart and a wide 
forehead. That’s the best I can do. Why?” 

“Anybody heard from her since she went to Europe?” 

“How should I know?” rejoined Brower impatiently, 
“What you driving at?” 

“I think I’ve seen her. I believe she’s not in Europe 
at all. I believe she’s a prisoner at the Ranch.” 

“My aunt!” ejaculated Brower. His nervousness was 
increasing — the symptoms I was to recognize so well. “ Why 

58 


THE KILLER 


the hell don’t you just shoot him from behind a bush? 
I’ll do it, if you won’t.” 

“He’s too smooth for that,” and I told him what Hooper 
had told me. “His hold on these Mexicans is remarkable. 
I don’t doubt that fifty of the best killers in the southwest 
have lists of the men Old Man Hooper thinks might lay him 
out. And every man on that list would get his within a 
year — without any doubt. I don’t doubt that partner’s 
daughter would go first of all. You, too, of course.” 

“My aunt!” groaned the jockey again. 

“He’s a killer,” I went on, “by nature, and by interest — 
a bad combination. He ought to be tramped out like a 
rattlesnake. But this is a new country, and it’s near the 
border. I expect he’s got me marked. If I have to I’ll 
kill him just like I would a rattlesnake; but that wouldn’t 
do me a whole lot of good and would probably get a bunch 
assassinated. I’d like to figure something different. So 
you see you’d better come on in while the coming is 
good.” 

“ I see,” said the ex-jockey, very much subdued. “ What’s 
your idea? What do you want me to do? ” 

That stumped me. To tell the truth I had no idea at 
all what to do. 

“I don’t want you to go out to Hooper’s Ranch alone,” 
said I. 

“Trust me!” he rejoined fervently. 

“I reckon the first best thing is to get along out of town,” 
I suggested. “That black bag all the plunder you got?” 

“That’s it.” 

“Then we’ll go out a-horseback.” 

59 


THE KILLER 


We had lunch and a smoke and settled up with McCloud. 
About mid-afternoon we went on down to the livery corral. 
I knew the keeper pretty well, of course, so I borrowed a 
horse and saddle for Brower. The latter looked with ex- 
treme disfavour on both. 

1 1 This is no race meet, 5 ’ I reminded him . “ This is a means 
of transportation.” 

“ Sorry I ain’t got nothing better,” apologized Meigs, 
to whom I had confided my companion’s profession — I had 
to account for such a figure somehow. “All my saddle 
hosses went off with a mine outfit yesterday.” 

“Whats the matter with that chestnut in the shed?” 

“He’s all right; fine beast. Only it ain’t mine. It be- 
longs to Ramon.” 

“Ramon from Hooper’s?” 

“Yeah.” 

“I’d fet you ride my horse and take Meigs’s old skate 
myself,” I said to Brower. “But when you first get on 
him this bronc of mine is a rip humming tail twister. Ain’t 
he, Meigs?” 

“He’s a bad caballo ,” corroborated Meigs. 

“Does he buck?” queried Brower indifferently. 

“Every known fashion. Bites, scratches, gouges, and 
paws. Want to try him? ” 

“I got a headache,” replied Brower grouchily. “Bring 
out your old dog.” 

When I came back from roping and blindfolding the 
twisted dynamite I was engaged in “gentling,” I found 
that Brower was saddling the mournful creature with my 
saddle. My expostulation found him very snappy and 

6o 


THE KILLER 


very arbitrary. His opium-irritated nerves were beginning 
to react. I realized that he was not far short of explosive 
obstinacy. So I conceded the point; although, as every 
rider knows, a cowboy’s saddle and a cowboy’s gun are 
like unto a toothbrush when it comes to lending. Also it 
involved changing the stirrup length on the livery saddle. 
I needed things just right to ride Tiger through the first 
five minutes. 

When I had completed this latter operation, Brower had 
just finished drawing tight the cinch. His horse stood de- 
jectedly. When Brower had made fast the latigo, the 
horse — as such dispirited animals often do — heaved a deep 
sigh. Something snapped beneath the slight strain of the 
indrawn breath. 

“Dogged if your cinch ain’t busted!” cried Meigs with a 
loud laugh. “Lucky for you your friend did borrow your 
saddle! If you’d dumb Tiger with that outfit you could 
just naturally have begun pickin’ out the likely-looking 
she-angels.” 

I dropped the stirrup and went over to examine the dam- 
age. Both of the quarter straps on the off side had given 
away. I found that they had been cut nearly through with 
a sharp knife. My eye strayed to Ramon’s chestnut horse 
standing under the shed. 


61 


CHAPTER IX 


W e jogged out to Box Springs by way of the lower alkali 
flats. It is about three miles farther that way; but one can 
see for miles in every direction. I did not one bit fancy 
the canons, the mesquite patches and the open ground of 
the usual route. 

I beguiled the distance watching Brower. The animal 
he rode was a hammer-headed, ewe-necked beast with a dis- 
consolate eye and a half-shed winter coat. The ex-jockey 
was not accustomed to a stock saddle. He had shortened 
his stirrups beyond all reason so that his knees and his 
pointed shoes and his elbows stuck out at all angles. He 
had thrust his derby hat far down over his ears, and but- 
toned his inadequate coat tightly. In addition he was nour- 
ishing a very considerable grouch, attributable, I suppose, 
to the fact that his customary dose was just about due. 
Tiger could not be blamed for dancing wide. Evening 
was falling, the evening of the desert when mysterious things 
seem to swell and draw imminent out of unguessed distances. 
I could not help wondering what these gods of the desert 
could be thinking of us. 

However, as we drew imperceptibly nearer the tiny patch 
of cottonwoods that marked Box Springs, I began to realize 
that it would be more to the point to wonder what that gang 
of hoodlums in the bunk house was going to think of us. 

62 * 


THE KILLER 


The matter had been fairly well carried off up to that mo- 
ment; but I could not hope for a successful repetition. No 
man could continue to lug around with him so deliciously 
a vaudeville sketch without some concession to curiosity. 
Nor could any mortal for long wear such clothes in the "face 
of Arizona without being required to show cause. He had 
got away with it last night, by surprise ; but that would be 
about all. 

At my fiftieth attempt to enter into conversation with 
him, I unexpectedly succeeded. I believe I was indicating 
the points of interest. You can see farther in Arizona than 
any place I know, so there was no difficulty about that. 
I’d pointed out the range of the Chiracahuas, and Coch- 
ise’s Stronghold, and the peaks of the Galiuros and other 
natural sceneries; I had showed him mesquite and yucca, 
and mescal and soapweed, and sage, and sacatone and nig- 
gerheads and all the other known vegetables of the region. 
Also I’d indicated prairie dogs and squinch owls and Gam- 
bel’s quail and road runners and a couple of coyotes and 
lizzards and other miscellaneous fauna. Not to speak of 
naming painstakingly the ranches indicated by the clumps 
of trees that you could just make out as little spots in the 
distance — Box Springs, the 0. T., the Double H, Fort 
Shatter and Hoopers. He waked up and paid a little atten- 
tion at this; and I thought I might get a little friendly talk 
out of him. A cowboy rides around along* so much he sort 
of likes to josh when he has anybody with him. This 
“ strong silent” stuff doesn’t go until you’ve used around 
with a man quite some time. 

I got the talk, all right, but it didn’t have a thing to do 

63 


THE KILLER 


with topography or natural history. Unless you call the 
skate he was riding natural history. That was the burden 
of his song. He didn’t like that horse, and he didn’t care 
who knew it. It was an uncomfortable horse to ride on, 
it required exertion to keep in motion, and it hurt his feel- 
ings. Expecially the last. He was a horseman, a jockey y 
he’d ridden the best blood in the equine world ; and here he 
was condemned through no fault of his own to straddle a 
cross between a llama and a wooly toy sheep. It hurt his 
pride. He felt bitterly about it. Indeed, he fairly harped 
on the subject. 

““Is that horse of yours through bucking for the day?” 
he asked at last. 

“ Certain thing. Tiger never pitches but the once.” 

“Let me ride him a ways. I’d like to feel a real horse to 
get the taste of this kangaroo out of my system.” 

I could see he was jumpy, so I thought I’d humour him. 

“ Swing on all at once and you’re all right,” I advised him. 
“Tiger don’t like fumbling in getting aboard.” 

He grunted scornfully. 

“Those stirrups are longer than the ones you’ve been 
using. Want to shorten them?” 

He did not bother to answer, but mounted in a decisive 
manner that proved he was indeed a horseman, and a good 
one. I climbed old crow bait and let my legs hang. 

The jockey gathered the reins and touched Tiger with his 
heels. I kicked my animal with my stock spurs and man- 
aged to extract a lumbering sort of gallop . 

“Hey, slow up!” I called after a few moments, “I can’t 
keep up with you.” 


64 


THE KILLER 


Brower did not turn his head, nor did Tiger slow up. 
After twenty seconds I realized that he intended to do 
neither. I ceased urging on my animal; there was no use 
tiring us both; evidently the jockey was enjoying to the full 
the exhilaration of a good horse, and we would catch up at 
Box Springs. I only hoped the boys wouldn’t do anything 
drastic to him before my arrival. 

So I jogged along at the little running walk possessed by 
even the most humble cattle horse, and enjoyed the even- 
ing. It was going on towards dusk and pools of twilight 
were in the bottom lands. For the moment the world had 
grown, smaller, more intimate, as the skies expanded. The 
dust from Brower’s going did not so much recede as grow 
littler, more toy-like. I watched idly his progress. 

At a point perhaps a mile this side the Box Springs ranch 
the road divides; the right hand fork leading to the ranch 
house, the left on up the valley. After a moment I noticed 
that the dust was on the left hand fork. I swore aloud. 

“The damn fool had taken the wrong road!” and then . 
after a moment, with dismay: “He’s headed straight for 
Hooper’s Ranch!” 

I envisaged the full joy and rapture of this thought for 
perhaps half a minute. It sure complicated matters, what 
with old Hooper gunning on my trail, and this partner’s 
daughter shut up behind bars. Me, I expected to last 
about two days unless I did something mighty sudden. 
Brower I expected might last approximately half that time, 
depending on how soon Ramon et al got busy. The girl I 
didn’t know anything about, nor did I want to at that 
moment. I was plenty worried about my own precious 

65 


THE KILLER 


hide just then. And if you think you are going to get a love 
story out of this, I warn you again to quit right now; you 
are not. 

Brower was going to walk into that gray old spider’s 
web like a nice fat fly. And he was going to land without 
even the aid and comfort of his own particular brand of 
Dutch courage. For safety’s sake, and because of Tiger’s 
playful tendencies when first mounted, we had tied the 
famous black bag — which now for convenience contained 
also the soothing syrup — behind the cantle of Meig’s old 
nag. Which said nag I now possessed together with all 
appurtenances and attachments thereunto appertaining 
I tried to speculate on the reactions of Old Man Hooper, 
Ramon, Brower and no dope, but it was too much for 
me. My head was getting tired thinking about all these 
complicated things anyhow. I was accustomed to nice 
simple jobs with my head, like figuring on the shrinkage of 
beef cattle, or the inner running of a two card draw. All 
this annoyed me. I began to get mad. When I got mad 
enough I cussed and came to a decision; which was to go 
after Old Man Hooper and all his works that very night. 
Next day wouldn’t do; I wanted action right off quick. 
Naturally I had no plans, nor even a glimmering of what I 
was going to do about it; but you bet you I was going to 
do something ! As soon as it was dark I was going right on 
up there. Frontal attack, you understand. As to details; 
those would take care of themselves as the affair developed. 
Having come to which sapient decision I shoved the whole 
irritating mess over the edge of my mind and rode on quite 
happy. I told you at the start of this yarn that I was a kid. 

66 


THE KILLER 


My mind being now quite easy as to my future actions, I 
gave thought to the first steps. That was supper. There 
seemed to me no adequate reason, with a fine long night 
before me, why I shouldn’t use a little of the shank end of it 
to stoke up for the rest. So I turned at the right hand fork 
and jogged slowly toward our own ranch. 

Of course I had the rotten luck to find most of the boys 
still at the water corral. When they saw who was the lone 
horseman approaching through the dusk of the spring 
twilight, and got a good fair look at the ensemble, they 
dropped everything and came over to see about it, headed 
naturally by those mournful blights, Windy Bill and 
Wooden. In solemn silence they examined my outfit pay- 
ing not the slightest attention to me. At the end of a full 
minute they looked at each other. 

“What do you think, Sam?” asked Windy. 

“My opinion is not quite formed, suh,” replied Woodern 
who was a Texican, “But my first examination inclines me 
to the belief that it is a hoss.” 

“Yo’re wrong, Sam,” denied Windy sadly, “Yo’re judg- 
ment is confused by the fact that the critter carries a saddle. 
Look at the animile itself.” 

“I have done it,” continued Sam Wooden, “at first glance 
I should agree with you. Look carefully, Windy. Examine 
the details; never mind the toot enscr amble. Its got hoofs.’ 

“So’s a cow, a goat, a burro, a camel, a hippypottamus 
and the devil,” pointed out Windy. 

“Of course I may be wrong,” acknowledged Woodem 
“On second examination I probably am wrong. But if it 
ain’t a hoss, then what is it? Do you know?” 

67 


THE KILLER 


“It’s a genuine royal gyasticutus,” esserted Windy Bill, 
positively. “I seen one once. It has one peculiarity that 
you can’t never fail to identify it by.” 

“What’s that?” 

“It invariably travels around with a congenital idiot.” 

Wooden promptly conceded that; but claimed the iden- 
tification not complete as he doubted whether, strictly 
speaking, I could be classified as a congenital idiot. Windy 
pointed out that evidently I had traded Tiger for the gyas- 
ticutus. Wooden admitted that this proved me an idiot, 
but not necessarily a congenital idiot. 

This colloquy — and more like it — went on with entire 
gravity. The other men were hanging about relishing the 
situation, but without a symptom of mirth. I was unsad- 
dling methodically, paying no attention to anybody, and 
apparently deaf to all that was being said 
If the two old fools had succeeded in eliciting a word from 
me, they would have been entirely happy; but I knew that 
fact, and shut my lips. 

I hung my saddle on the rack and was just about to lead 
the old skate to water when we all heard the sound of a horse 
galloping on the road. 

“It’s a light hoss,” said somebody after a moment, 
meaning a horse without a burden. 

We nodded and resumed our occupation. A stray horse 
coming in to water was nothing strange or unusual. But 
an instant later, stirrups swinging, reins flapping, up 
dashed my own horse, Tiger. 


63 


CHAPTER XI 


All this being beyond me, and then some, I proceeded 
methodically to carry out my complicated plan ; which was, 
it will be remembered, to eat supper and then to go and 
see about it in person. I performed the first part of this 
to my entire satisfaction but not to that of the rest. They 
accused me of unbecoming secrecy; only they expressed it 
differently. That did not worry me; and in due time I 
made my escape. At the corral I picked out a good horse, 
one that I had brought from the Gila, that would stay tied 
indefinitely without impatience. Then I lighted me a 
cigarette and jogged up the road. I carried with me a little 
grub, my six-gun, the famous black bag, and an entirely 
empty head. 

The night was only moderately dark, for while there was 
no moon there were plenty of those candle-like desert stars. 
The little twinkling lights of the Box Springs dropped astern 
like lamps on a shore. By and by I turned off the road and 
made a wide detour down the sacatone bottoms, for I had 
still some sense; and roads were a little too obvious. The 
reception committee that had taken charge of my little 
friend might be expecting another visitor — me. This 
brought my approach to the blank side of the ranch where 
were the willow trees and the irrigating ditch. I rode up as 
close as I thought I ought to. Then I tied my horse to a 

69 


THE KILLER 


prominent lone joshua-tree that would be easy to find, 
unstrapped the black bag, and started off. The black bag, 
however, bothered me; so after some thought I broke the 
lock with a stone and investigated the contents, mainly by 
feel. There were a lot of clothes and toilet articles and 
such junk, and a number of undetermined hard things like 
round wooden boxes. Finally I withdrew to the shelter of 
a barranca where I could light matches. Then I had no dif- 
ficulty in identifying a nice compact little hypodermic out- 
fit, which I slipped into a pocket. I then deposited the 
bag in a safe place where I could find it easily. 

Leaving my horse I approached the Ranch under cover 
of the willows. Yes, I remembered this time that I left 
tracks; but I did not care. My idea was to get some sort 
of decisive action before morning. Once through the 
willows I crept up close to the walls. They were twelve or 
fifteen feet high, absolutely smooth; and with one exception 
broken only by the long narrow loop holes or transoms 
I have mentioned before. The one exception was a small 
wicket gate or door. I remembered the various sorties 
with torches after the chirping frogs, and knew that by this 
opening the hunting party had emerged. This and the 
big main gate were the only entrances to the enclosure. 

I retired to the vicinity of the willows and uttered the 
cry of the barred owl. After ten seconds I repeated it, and 
so continued. My only regret was that I could not chirp 
convincingly like a frog. I saw a shadow shift suddenly 
through one of the transoms; and at once glided to the wall 
near the little door. After a moment or so it opened to 
emit Old Man Hooper and another bulkier figure which 


70 


THE KILLER 


I imagined to be that of Ramon. Both were armed with 
shotguns. Suddenly it came to me that I was lucky not 
to have been able to chirp convincingly like a frog. They 
hunted frogs with torches and in a crowd. Those two 
carried no light and they were so intent on making a sneak 
on the willows and the supposititious owl that I, flattened 
in the shadow of the wall, easily escaped their notice. I 
slipped inside the doorway. 

This brought me into a narrow passage between two 
buildings. The other end looked into the interior court. 
A careful reconnaisance showed no one in sight, so I walked 
boldly along the verandah in the direction of the girl’s 
room. Her note had said she was constantly guarded; but 
X ? could see no one in sight, and I had to take a chance some- 
where. Two seconds’ talk would do me; I wanted to know 
in which of the numerous rooms the old man slept. I had a 
hunch it would be a good idea to share that room with him. 
What to do then I left to the hunch. 

But when I was half way down the verandah I heard the 
wicket door slammed shut. The owl hunters had returned 
more quickly than I had anticipated. Running as lightly 
as possible I darted down the verandah and around the 
corner of the left wing. This brought me into a narrow 
little garden strip between the main house and the wall 
dividing the court from the corralls and stable yards. 
Footsteps followed me, but stopped. A hand tried the door 
knob to the comer room. 

“ Nothing,” I heard Hooper’s voice replying to a question. 
“ Nothing at all. Go to sleep.” 

The fragrant smell of Mexican tobacco reached my nos- 


7i 


THE KILLER 


trils. After a moment Ramon, — it was he — resumed a 
conversation in Spanish. 

“I do not know, senor, who the man was. I could but 
listen; it was not well to inquire nor to show too much 

interest. His name, yes; Jim Starr, but who he is ” I 

could imagine the shrug. “It is of no importance.” . 

“It is of importance that the other man still lives,” broke 
in Hooper’s harsher voice, “I will not have it, I say! Are 
you sure of it?” 

“I saw him. And I saw his horse at the Senor Meigs. 
It was the brown that bucks badly, so I cut the quarter 
straps of his saddle. It might be that we have luck; I do 
not count on it. But rest your mind easy, senor, it shall 
be arranged.” 

“It better be.” 

“But there is more, senor. The senor will remember a 
man who rode in races for him many years ago, one named 
Artie ” 

“Brower!” broke in Hooper, “What about him? ” 

“He is in town. He arrived yesterday afternoon.” 

Hooper ejaculated something. 

“And more, he is all day and all night with this Sanborn.” 

Hooper swore fluently in English. 

‘ ‘ Look, Ramon ! ” he ordered vehemently. “ It is necessary 
to finish this Sanborn at once, without delay.” 

“Bueno, senor.” 

“It must not go over a single day.” 

“Haste makes risk, senor.” 

“The risk must be run.” 

“Bueno, senor. And also this Artie?” 


72 


THE KILLER 


“No! No! no!” hastened Hooper. “Guard him as 
your life! But send a trusty man for him to-morrow with 
the buckboard. He comes to see me, in answer to my 
invitation.” 

“And if he will not come, senor?” inquired Ramon’s 
quiet voice. 

“Why should he not come?” 

“He has been much with Sanborn.” 

“It’s necessary that he come,” replied Hooper, emphasiz- 
ing each word. 

“Bueno, senor.” 

“Who is to be on guard?” 

“Cortinez, senor.” 

“I will send him at once. Do me the kindness to watch 
for a moment until I send him. Here is the key; give it to 
him. It shall be but a moment.” 

“Bueno, senor,” replied Ramon. 

He leaned against the corner of the house. I could see the 
half of his figure against the sky and the dimjwhite'of the walls. 

The night was very still, as always at this ranch. There 
was not even a breeze to create a rustle in the leaves. I 
was obliged to hold rigidly motionless, almost to hush my 
breathing, while the figure bulked large against the white- 
washed wall. But my eyes, wide to the dimness, took in 
every detail of my surroundings. Near me stood a water 
barrel. If I could get a spring from that water barrel I 
could catch one of the heavy projecting beams of the roof. 

After an apparently interminable interval the sound of 
footsteps became audible, and a moment later Ramon 
moved to meet his relief. I seized the opportunity of their 

73 


THE KILLER 


conversation and ascended to the roof. It proved to be 
easy, although the dried out old beam to which for a mo- 
ment I swung, creaked outrageously. Probably it sounded 
louder to me than the actual fact. I took off my boots and 
moved cautiously to where I could look down into the 
court. Ramon and his companion were still talking under 
the verandah, so I could not see them; but I waited until I 
heard one of them move away. Then I went to seat myself 
on the low parapet and think things over. 

The man below me had the key to the girl's room. If I 
could get the key I could accomplish the first step of my 
plan — indeed the only step I had determined upon. The 
exact method of getting the key would have to develop. 
In the meantime I gave passing wonder to the fact, as 
developed by the conversation between Hooper and Ramon, 
that Brower was not at the Ranch and had not been heard 
of at the Ranch. Where had Tiger dumped him, and where 
now was he lying? I keenly regretted the loss of a possible 
ally; and, much to my astonishment, I found within myself 
a little regret for the man himself. 

The thought of the transom occurred to me. I tiptoed 
over to that side and looked down. The opening was about 
five feet below the parapet. After a moment's thought I 
tied a bit of stone from the coping in the end of my silk 
bandana and lowered it at arm’s length. By swinging it 
gently back and forth I determined that the transom was 
open. With the stub of the pencil every cowboy carried 
to tally with I scribbled a few words on an envelop which I 
wrapped about the bit of coping. Something to the effect 
that I was there, and expected to gain entrance to her room 

74 


THE KILLER 


later, and to be prepared. Then I lowered my contraption, 
caused it to tap gently a dozen times on the edge of the 
transom, and finally swung it with a rather nice accuracy to 
fly, bandana and all, through the opening. After a short 
interval of suspense I saw the reflection of a light and so 
knew my message had been received. 

There was nothing to do now but return to a point of 
observation. On my way I stubbed my stockinged foot 
against a stone metate or mortar in which Indians and 
Mexicans make their flour. The heavy pestle was there. 
I annexed it. Dropped accurately from the height of the 
roof it would make a very pretty weapon. The trouble, 
of course, lay in that word “accurately.” 

But I soon found the fates playing into my hands. At 
the end of a quarter hour the sentry emerged from under 
the verandah, looked up at the sky, yawned, stretched, and 
finally sat down with his back against the wall of the build- 
ing opposite. Inside of ten minutes he was sound asleep 
and snoring gently. 

I wanted nothing better than that. The descent was a 
little difficult to accomplish noiselessly, as I had to 
drop some feet, but I managed it. After crouching for a 
moment to see if the slight sounds had aroused him, I 
crept along the wall to where he sat. The stone pestle of 
the metate I had been forced to leave behind me, but I had 
the heavy barrel of my gun, and I was going to take no 
chances. I had no compunctions as to what I did to any 
one of this pack of mad dogs. Cautiously I drew it from 
its holster and poised it to strike. At that instant I was 
seized and pinioned from behind. 

75 


CHAPTER XII 


I did not struggle. I would have done so if I had been 
able, but I was caught in a grip so skillful that the smallest 
move gave me the most exquisite pain. At that time I had 
not even heard the words jiujitsu, but I have looked them 
up since. Cortinez, the sleepy sentry, without changing 
his position, had opened his eyes and was grinning at me. 

I was forced to my feet and marched to the open door of 
the corner room. There I was released; and turned around 
to face Hooper himself. The old man’s face was twisted 
in a sardonic half-snarl that might pass for a grin ; but there 
was no smile in his unblinking wild-cat eyes. There seemed 
to be trace neither of the girl nor the girl’s occupation. 

“Thank you for your warning of your intended visit,” 
said Hooper in silky tones, indicating my bandana which 
lay on the table. “And now may I inquire to what I owe 
the honour of this call? Or it may be that the visit was not 
intended for me at all. Mistake in the rooms, perhaps. I 
often shift and change my quarters, and those of my house- 
hold; especially if I suspect I have some reason for doing so. 
It adds interest to an otherwise unevenful life.” 

He was eying me sardonically, evidently gloating over the 
situation as he found it. 

“How did you get on that roof? Who let you inside the 
walls?” he demanded abruptly. 

76 


THE KILLER 


I merely smiled at him. 

“That we can determine later,” he observed, resuming 
command of himself. 

I measured my chances, and found them at present a 
minus quantity. The old man was separated from me by 
a table, and he held my own revolver ready for instant use. 
So I stood tight and waited. 

The room was an almost exact replica of the one in which 
I had spent the night so short a time before; the same long 
narrow transom near the ceiling, the same barred windows 
opening on the court, the same closet against the blank 
wall. Hooper had evidently inhabited it for some days, 
for it was filled with his personal belongings. Indeed he 
must have moved in en bloc when his ward had been moved 
out, for none of the furnishings showed the feminine touch, 
and several articles could have belonged only to the old man 
personally. Of such was a small iron safe in one corner and 
a tall old fashioned desk crammed with papers. 

But if I decided overt action unwise at this moment, I 
decidedly went into action the next. Hooper whistled and 
four Mexicans appeared with ropes. Somehow I knew if 
they once hog- tied me I would never get another chance. 
Better dead now than helpless in the morning; for what that 
old buzzard might want of me. 

One of them tossed a loop at me. I struck it aside and 
sailed in. 

It had always been my profound and contemptuous belief 
that I could lick any four Mexicans. Now I had to take 
that back. I could not. But I gave them an argument; 
and by the time they had my elbows lashed behind me and 

77 


THE KILLER 


my legs tied to the legs of one of those big solid chairs they 
like to name as “Mission style,” I had marked them up 
and torn their pretty clothes and smashed a lot of junk 
around the place and generally got them so mad they would 
have knifed me in a holy second if it had not been for Old 
Man Hooper. The latter held up the lamp where it wouldn’t 
get smashed and admonished the min no uncertain terms 
that he wanted me alive and comparatively undamaged. 
Oh sure! they mussed me up too. I wasn’t very pretty 
either. 

The bravos withdrew muttering curses, as the story books 
say; and after Hooper had righted the table and stuck the 
lamp on it, and taken a good look at my bonds he withdrew 
also. 

Most of my time until the next thing occurred was oc- 
cupied in figuring on all the things that might happen 
to me. One thing I acknowledged to myself right off the 
reel; the Mexicans had sure trussed me up for further or- 
ders! I could move my hands but I knew enough of 
ropes and ties to realize that my chances of getting free were 
exactly nothing. My plans had gone perfectly up to this 
moment. I had schemed to get inside the ranch and into 
Old Man Hooper’s room; and here I was! What more 
could a man ask? 

The next thing occurred so soon however, that I hadn’t 
had time to think of more than ten per cent, of the things 
that might happen to me. The outside door opened to 
admit Hooper, followed by the girl. He stood aside in the 
most courtly fashion. 

“My dear,” he said, “Here is Mr. Sanborn, who has come 
78 


THE KILLER 


to call on you. You remember Mr. Sanborn, I am sure. 
You met him at dinner; and besides, I believe, you had some 
correspondence with him, did you not? He has taken so 
much trouble, so very much trouble to see you that I think 
it a great pity his wish should not be fulfilled. Won’t you 
sit down here, my dear? ” 

She was staring at me, her eyes gone wide with wonder 
and horror. Half thinking she took her seat as indicated. 
Instantly the old man had bound her elbows at the back 
and had lashed her to the chair. After the first start of 
surprise she made no resistance. 

“ There,” said Hooper, straightening up after the ac- 
complishment of this task, “Now I’m going to leave you to 
your visit. You can talk it all over. Tell him all you 
please, my dear. And you, sir, tell her all you know. I 
think I can arrange so your confidences will go no further.” 

For the first time I hears him laugh, a high uncertain 
cackle. The girl said nothing, but she stared at him with 
level blazing eyes. Also for the first time I began to take 
an interest in her. 

“Do you object to smoking?” I asked her suddenly. 

She blinked and recovered. 

“Not at all,” she answered. 

“Well, then old man, be a sport. Give me the makings. 
I can get my hands to my mouth.” 

The old man transferred his baleful eyes on me. Then 
without saying a word he placed in my hands a box of 
tailor-made cigarettes and a dozen matches. 

“Until morning,” he observed, his hand on the door knob. 
He inclined in a most courteous fashion, first to the one of 


79 


THE KILLER 


us, then to the other; and went out. He did not lock the 
door after him, and I could hear him addressing Cortinez 
outside. The girl started to speak, but I waved my shack- 
led hand at her for silence. By straining my ears I could 
just make out what was said. 

“I am going to bed,” Hooper said. “It is not necessary 
to stand guard. You may get your blankets and sleep on 
the verandah.” 

After the old man’s footsteps had died, I turned back to 
the girl opposite me and looked her over catefully. My 
first impression of meekness I revised. She did not look 
to me one bit meek. Her lips were compressed, her nostrils 
wide, her level eyes unsubdued. A person of sense, I said 
to myself, well balanced, who has learned when it is useless 
to kick against the pricks, but who has not necessarily on 
that account forever renounced all kicking. It occurred 
to me that she must have had to be pretty thoroughly con- 
vinced before she had come to this frame of mind. When 
she saw that I had heard all I wanted of the movements 
outside, she spoke hurriedly in her low sweet voice. 

“ Oh, I am so distressed ! This is all my doings ! I should 
have known better- ” 

“Now,” I interrupted her decisively, “Let’s get down to 
cases. You had nothing to do with this; nothing what- 
ever. I visited this ranch the first time out of curiosity; 
and to-night because I knew that I’d have to hit first to 
save my own life. You had no influence on me in either case.” 

“You thought this was my room — I wrote you it was,” 
she countered swiftly. 

“I wanted to see you solely and simply that I might find 
80 


THE KILLER 


out how to get at Hooper. This is all my fault; and we’re 
going to cut out the self-accusations and get down to cases.” 

I afterwards realized that all this was somewhat incon- 
siderate and ungallant and slightly humiliating; — I should 
have taken the part of the knight-errant rescuing the damsel 
in distress, but at that moment only the direct essentials 
entered my mind. 

“Very well,” she assented in her repressed tones. 

“Do you think he is listening to what we say; or has some- 
body listening? ” 

“I am positive not.” 

“Why?” 

“I lived in this room for two months, and I know every 
inch of it.” 

“He might have some sort of a concealed listening hole 
somewhere, just the same.” 

“I am certain he has not. The walls are two feet thick.” 

“All right; let it go at that. Now let’s see where we 
stand. In the first place, how do you dope this out?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“What does he intend to do with us?” 

She looked me straight, eye to eye. 

“In the morning he will kill you — unless you can con- 
trive something.” 

“Cheering thought.” 

“There is no sense in not facing situations squarely. If 
there is a way out that is the only method by which it may 
be found.” 

“True,” I agreed, my admiration growing. “And your- 
self; will he kill you, too?” 

81 


THE KILLER 


“He will not. He does not dare!” she cried proudly 
with a flash of the eyes. 

I was not so sure of that, but there was no object in saying 
so. 

“Why has he tied you in that chair then, — along with the 
condemned?” I asked. 

“You will understand better if I tell you who I am.” 

“You are his deceased partner’s daughter; and everybody 
thinks you are in Europe,” I started. 

“How in the world did you know that? But no matter; 
it is true. I embarked three months ago on the Limited 
for New York intending, as you say, to go on a long trip 
to Europe. My father and I had been alone in the world. 
We were very fond of each other. I took no companion, 
nor did I intend to. I felt quite independent and able to 
take care of myself. At the last moment Mr. Hooper 
boarded the train. That was quite unexpected. He was 
on his way to the Ranch. He persuaded me to stop over 
for a few days to decide some matters. You know, since 
my father’s death I am half owner.” 

“Whole owner,” I murmured. 

“What did you say? ” 

“Nothing. Go ahead. Sure you don’t mind my smok- 
ing? ” I lit one of the tailor-mades and settled back. Even 
my inexperienced youth recognized the necessity of relief 
this long continued stubborn repression must feel. My 
companion had as yet told me nothing I did not already 
know or guess; but I knew it would do her good to talk, 
and I might learn something valuable. 

“We came out to the ranch, and talked matters over 
82 


THE KILLER 


quite normally; but when it came time for my departure, 
I was not permitted to leave. For some unexplained reason 
I was a prisoner, confined absolutely to the four walls of 
this enclosure. I was guarded night and day; and I soon 
found I was to be permitted conversation with two men 
only, Mexicans named Ramon and Andreas.” 

“They are his right and left hand, ” I commented. 

“So I found. You may imagine I did not submit to this 
until I found I had to. Then I made up my mind that the 
only possible thing to do was to acquiesce, to observe, and 
to wait my chance.” 

“You were right enough there. Why do you figure he 
did this?” 

“I don’t know!” she cried with a flash of thwarted des- 
pair. “I have wracked my brains, but I can find no mo- 
tive. He has not asked me for a thing; he has not even 
asked me a question. Unless he’s stark crazy, I cannot 
make it out!” 

“He may be that,” I suggested. 

“ He may be; and yet I doubt it somehow. I don’t know 
why; but I feel that he is sane enough. He is inconceiv- 
ably cruel and domineering. He will not tolerate a living 
thing about the place that will not or cannot take orders 
from him. He kills the flies, the bees, the birds, the frogs, 
because they are not his. I believe he would kill a man as 
quickly who stood out even for a second against him here. 
To that extent I believe he is crazy: — a sort of monomania. 
But not otherwise. That is why I say he will kill you; I 
really believe he would do it.” 

“So do I,” I agreed grimly. “However, let’s drop that 

83 


THE KILLER 

for right now. Do you know a man named Brower, Artie 
Brower?” 

“ I don’t think I ever heard of him. Why? ” 

“ Never mind for a minute. I’ve just had a great thought 
strike me. Just let me alone a few moments while I work 
it out.” 

I lighted a second cigareet from the butt of the first and 
fell into a study. Cortinez breathed heavily outside. 
Otherwise the silence was as dead as the blackness of the 
night. The smoke from my cigareets floated lazily until 
it reached the influence of the hot air from the lamp; then 
it shot upwards toward the ceiling. The girl watched me 
from under her level brows, always with that air of con- 
trolled restraint I found so admirable. 

“I’ve got it,” I said at last, “ — or at least I think I have. 
Now listen to me, and believe what I’ve got to say. Here 
are the facts: first, your father and Hooper split partnership 
a while back. Hooper took his share entirely in cash; your 
father took his probably part in cash, but certainly all of 
the ranch and cattle. Get that clear? Hooper owns no 
part of the ranch and cattle. All right. Your father dies 
before the papers relating to this agreement are recorded. 
Nobody knew of those papers except your father and 
Hooper. So if Hooper were to destroy those papers, he’d 
still have the cash that had been paid him, and an equal 
share in the property. That plain? ” 

“Perfectly,” she replied composedly. “Why didn’t he 
destroy them? ” 

“Because they had been stolen by this man Brower I 
asked you about — an ex-jockey of Hooper’s. Brower held 

84 


THE KILLER 


them for blackmail. Unless Hooper came through Brower 
would record the papers.” 

“Where do I come in?” 

“Easy. I’m coming to that. But answer me this: 
who would be your heir in case you died?” 

“Why— I don’t know?” 

“ Have you any kin? ” 

“Not a soul!” 

“Did you ever make a will?” 

“I never thought of such a thing!” 

“Well, I’ll tell you. If you were to die your interest in 
this property would go to Hooper.” 

“What makes you think so? I thought it would go 
to the state.” 

“I’m guessing.” I acknowledged, “but I believe I’m 
guessing straight. A lot of these old Arizona partnerships 
were made just that way. Life was uncertain out here. 
I’ll bet the old original partnership between your father 
and Hooper provides that in case of the extinction of one 
line, the other will inherit. It’s a very common form of 
partnership in a new country like this. You can see for 
yourself its a sensible thing to provide.” 

“You may be right,” she commented. “Go on.” 

“You told me a while ago it was best to face any situa- 
tion squarely. Now brace up and face this. You said a 
while ago that Hooper would not dare kill you. That is 
true for the moment. But there is no doubt in my mind 
that he has intended from the first to kill you, because by 
that he would get possession of the whole property.” 

“I cannot believe it!” she cried. 

85 


THE KILLER 


“Isn’t the incentive enough? Think carefully, and 
answer honestly; don’t you think him capable of it?” 

“Yes — I suppose so,” she admitted reluctantly after a 
moment. She gathered herself as after a shock. “Why 
hasn’t he done so? Why has he waited?” 

I told her of the situation as it concerned Brower. While 
the dissolution of partnership papers still existed and might 
still be recorded, such a murder would be useless. For 
naturally the dissolution abrogated the old partnership 
agreement. The girl’s share of the property would, at her 
demise intestate, go to the State. That is, provided the 
new papers were ever recorded. 

“Then I am safe until ?” she began. 

“Until he negotiates or otherwise settles with Brower. 
Until he has destroyed all evidence.” 

“Then everything seems to depend on this Brower,” 
she said, knitting her brows anxiously. “Where is he?” 

I did not answer this last question. My eyes were riveted 
on the door-knob which was slowly, almost imperceptibly 
turning. Cortinez continued to breathe heavily in sleep 
outside. The intruder was evidently at great pains not to 
awaken the guard. A fraction of an inch at a time the 
door opened. A wild haired wild eyed head inserted itself 
cautiously through the crack. The girl’s eyes widened 
in surprise and, I imagine, a little in fear. I began to 
laugh, silently so as not to disturb Cortinez. Mirth over- 
came me; the tears ran down my cheeks. 

“It’s so darn complete!” I gasped answering the girl’s 
horrified look of inquiry. “Miss Emery allow me to pre- 
sent Mr. Artie Brower!” 


86 


CHAPTER XIII 


Brower entered the room quickly, but very quietly and at 
once came to me. His eyes were staring, his eyelids 
twitched, his hands shook. I recognized the symptoms. 

“Have you got it? Have you got it with you?” he whis- 
pered feverishly. 

“It’s all right: I can fix you up. Untie me first.” I 
replied. 

He began to fumble with the knots of my bonds, too 
hastily and impatiently for effectiveness. I was trying to 
stoop over far enough to see what he was doing when my 
eye caught the shadow of a moving figure outside. An 
instant later Tim Westmore, the English groom attached to 
the Morgan stallion, came cautiously through the door, 
which he closed behind him. I attempted unobstrusively 
to warn Brower, but he only looked up, nodded vaguely 
and continued his fumbling efforts to free me. Westmore 
glanced at us all curiously, but went at once to the big win- 
dows, which he proceeded to swing shut. Then he came 
over to us, pushed Brower one side and most expeditiously 
untied the knots. I stood up stretching in the luxury of 
freedom, then turned to perform a like office for Miss 
Emory. But Brower was by now frantic. He seized my 
arm and fairly shook me, big as I was, in the urgence of his 
desire. He was rapidly losing all control and caution. 

87 


THE KILLER 


“Let him have it, sir,” urged Westmore in a whisper. 
“Til free the young lady.” 

I gave Brower the hypodermic case. He ran to the wash 
bowl for water. During the process of preparation he 
uttered little animal sounds under his breath. When the 
needle had sunk home he lay back in a chair and closed his 
eyes. 

In the meantime I had been holding a whispered colloquy 
with Westmore. 

“He sneaked in on me at dark, sir,” he told me, “On 
foot. I don’t know how he got in without being seen. 
They’d have found his tracks anyway in the morning. I 
don’t think he knew quite what he wanted to do. Him 
and me were old pals, and he wanted to ask me about things. 
He didn’t expect to stay, I fancy. He told me he had left 
his horse tied a mile or so down the road. Then a while 
back orders came to close down, air tight. We’re used to 
such orders. Nobody can go out or come in, you under- 
stand. And there are guards placed. That made him 
uneasy. He told me then he was a hop fiend. I’ve seen 
them before, and I got uneasy, too. If he came to the worst 
I might have to tie and gag him. I know how they are.” 

“ Go ahead,” I urged. He had stopped to listen. 

“ I don’t like that Cortinez being so handy like out there,” 
he confessed. 

“Hooper told him he could sleep. He’s not likely to pay 
attention to us. Miss Emery and I have been talking aloud. ’ ’ 

“I hope not. Well then Ramon came by and stopped to 
talk to me for a minute. I had to hide Artie in a box-stall 
and hope to God he kept quiet. He wasn’t as bad as he is 

88 


THE KILLER 


now. Ramon told me about you being caught; and went 
on. After that nothing must do but find you. He thought 
you might have his dope. He’d have gone into the jaws of 
hell after it. So I came along to keep him out of mischief.” 

“What are you going to do now?” asked the girl, who 
had kicked off her slippers and had been walking a few 
paces to and fro. 

“I don’t know, ma’am. We’ve got to get away.” 

“We?” 

“You mean me too?” Yes ma’am! I have stood with 
the doings of this place as long as I can stand them. Artie 
has told me some other things. Are you here of your free 
will ma’am?” he asked abruptly. 

“No,” she replied. 

“I suspected as much. I’m through with the whole lot 
of them.” 

Brower opened his eyes. He was now quite calm. 

“Hooper sold the Morgan stallion,” he whispered, smiled 
sardonically, and closed his eyes again. 

“Without telling me a word of it!” added Tim with heat. 
“He ain’t delivered him yet.” 

“Well, I don’t blame you. Now you’d better quietly 
sneak back to your quarters. There is likely to be trouble 
before we get through. You too, Brower. Nobody knows 
you are here.” 

Brower opened his eyes again. 

“I can get out of this place now I’ve had me hop,” said 
he decidedly. “Come on, let’s go.” 

“We’ll all go.” I agreed, “But let’s see what we can find 

here first. There may be some paper — or something ” 

89 


THE KILLER 


“What do you mean? What sort of papers? Hadn’t 
we better go at once?” 

“It is supposed to be well known that the reason Hooper 
isn’t assassinated from behind a bush is because in that 
case his killers are in turn to assassinate a long list of his 
enemies. Only nobody is sure: just as nobody is really 
sure that he has killers at all. You can’t get action on an 
uncertainty.” 

She nodded. “I can unerstand that.” 

“ If we could get proof positive it would be no trick at all 
to raise the country.” 

“What sort of proof?” 

“Well, I mentioned a list. I don’t doubt his head man — 
Ramon I suppose — , the one he’d trust with carrying out 
such a job, must have a list of some sort. He wouldn’t 
trust to memory.” 

“And he wouldn’t trust it to Ramon until after he was 
dead!” said the girl with sudden intuition. “If it exists 
we’ll find it here.” 

She started toward the paper-stuffed desk, but I stopped 
her. 

“More likely the safe,” said I. 

Tim, who was standing near it, tried the handle. 

“It’s locked,” he whispered. 

I fell on my knees and began to fiddle with the dial, of 
course, in vain. Miss Emery with more practical decision 
of character began to run through the innumerable bundles 
and loose papers in the desk, tossing them aside as they 
proved unimportant or not germane to the issue. I had 
not the slightest knowledge of the constructions of safes 


90 


THE KILLER 


but whirled the knob hopelessly in one direction or another 
trying to listen for clicks, as somewhere I had read was the 
thing to do. As may be imagined, I arrived no where. 
Nor did the girl. We looked at each other in chagrin at last. 

“ There is nothing here but ranch bills and accounts and 
business letters,” she confessed. 

I merely shook my head. 

At this moment Brower, whom I had supposed to be 
sound asleep, opened his eyes. 

“Want that safe open?” he asked drowsily. 

He arose, stretched, and took his place beside me on the 
floor. His head cocked one side he slowly turned the 
dials with the tips of fingers, I for the first time noticed 
were long and slim and sensitive. Twice after extended 
delicate manipulations he whirled the knob impatiently 
and took a fresh start. On the proverbial third trial he 
turned the handle and the door swung open. He arose 
rather stiffly from his knees, resumed his place in the arm- 
chair, and again closed his eyes. 

It was a small safe, with few pigeon holes. A number of 
blue covered contracts took small time for examination. 
There were the usual number of mine certificates not valu- 
able enough for a safe deposit, some confidential memoranda 
and accounts having to do with the ranch. 

“Ah, here is something!” I breathed, to the eager audi- 
ence over my shoulder. I held in my hands a heavy manila 
envelope, sealed, inscribed “Ramon. (To be destroyed 
unopened.)” 

“Evidently we were right: Ramon has the combina- 
tion and is to be executor.” I commented. 


9i 


THE KILLER 


I tore open the envelope and extracted from it another 
of the blue covered documents. 

“It’s a copy, unsigned, of that last agreement with your 
father,” I said, after a disappointed glance. “It’s worth 
keeping,” and I thrust it inside my shirt. 

But this particular pigeon hole proved to be a mine. 
In it were several more of the same sort of envelope, all 
sealed, all addressed to Ramon. One was labelled as the 
Last Will; one as Inventory; and one simply as Directions. 
This last had a further warning that it was to be opened only 
by the one addressed. I determined by hasty examination 
that the first two were only what they purported to be, and 
turned hopefully to a perusal of the last. It was in Spanish : 
and dealt at great length with the disposition and manage- 
ment of Hooper’s extensive interests. I append a trans- 
lation of the portion of this remarkable document, having 
to do with our case. 

“These are my directions” it began, “as to the matter 
of which we have many times spoken together. I have 
many enemies, and many who think they have cause to 
wish my death. They are cowards and soft and I do not 
think they will ever be sure enough to do me harm. I 
do not fear them. But it may be that one or some of 
them will find it in their souls to do a deed against me. In 
that case I shall be content, for neither do I fear the devil. 
But I shall be content only if you follow my orders. I add 
here a list of my enemies and of those who have cause to 
wish me ill. If I am killed, it is probable that some one of 
these will have done the deed. Therefore they must all 
die. You must see to it, following them if necessary to the 


92 


THE KILLER 


ends of the earth. You will know how; and what means to 
employ. When all these are gone, then go you to the highest 
rock on the southerly pinnacle of Cochise’s Stronghold. 
Ten paces northwest is a gray flat slab. If you lift this 
slab there will be found a copper box. In the box is the 
name of a man. You will go to this man and give him the 
copper box and in return he will give to you one hundred 
thousand dollars. I know well, my Ramon, that you hon- 
estly would not permit you to seek the copper box before 
the last of my enemies is dead. Nevertheless, that you 
may admire my recourse, I have made an arrangement. 
If the gray slab on Cochise’s Stronghold is ever disturbed 
before the whole toll is paid, you will die very suddenly and 
unpleasantly. I know well that you, My Ramon, would 
not disturb it; and I hope for your sake that nobody 
else will do so. It is not likely. No one is fool enough to 
climb Cochise’s Stronghold for pleasure; and this gray slab 
js one among many.” 

At this time I did not read carefully the above cheerful 
document. My Spanish was good enough, but took time 
in the translating. I dipped into it enough to determine 
that it was what we wanted, and flipped the pages to come 
to the list of prospective victims. It covered two sheets, and 
a glance down the columns showed me that about every per- 
manent inhabitant of the Soda Springs Valley was included. 
I found my own name in quite fresh ink toward the last. 

“This is what we want,” I said in satisfaction rising to my 
feet. I sketched in a few words the purport of the document. 

“Let me see it” said the girl. 

I handed it to her. She began to examine carefully Yhe 


93 


THE KILLER 


list of names, her face turning paler as she read. Tim 
Westmore looked anxiously over her shoulder. Suddenly 
I saw his face congest and his eyes bulge. 

“Why! why!” he gasped “I’m there! What’ve I ever 
done, I ask you that? The old — ” he choked, at a loss 
and groping. Then his anger flared up. “I’ve always 
served him faithful and done what I was told,” he mut- 
tered fiercely. “I’ll do him in for this!” 

“I am here,” observed Miss Emory. 

“Yes, and that sot in the chair!” whispered Tim fiercely. 

Again Brower proved he was not asleep by opening one eye. 

“Thanks for them kind words,” said he. 

“We’ve got to get out of here,” stated Tim with con- 
viction. 

“That idea just got through your thick British skull?” 
queried Artie, rousing again. 

“I wish we had some way to carry the young lady: — 
she can’t walk” said Westmore, paying no attention. 

“I have my horse tied out by the lone joshua tree,” I 
answered him, 

“I’m going to take a look at that Cortinez,” said the 
little Englishman nodding his satisfaction at my news as to 
the horse. “I’m not easy about him.” 

“He’ll sleep like a log until morning.” Miss Emory 
reassured me. “I’ve often stepped right over him where 
he has been on guard and walked all around the garden.” 

“Just the same I’m going to take a look” persisted West- 
more. 

He tiptoed to the door, softly turned the knob and opened 
it. He found himself face to face with Cortinez. 


94 


CHAPTER XIV 


I had not thought of the English groom as a man of re- 
source, but his action in this emergency proved him. He 
cast a fleeting glance over his shoulder. Artie Brower was 
huddled down in his armchair practically out of sight; Miss 
Amory and I had reseated ourselves in the only other two 
chairs in the room, so that we were in the same relative posi- 
tions as when we had been bound and left. Only the con- 
fusion of the papers on the floor and the open safe would 
have struck an observant eye. 

“It is well that you come,” said Tim to Cortinez in 
Spanish. “The Senor sent me to conduct these two to the 
East Room and I like not the job alone. Enter.” 

He held the door with one hand and fairly dragged Cor- 
tinez through with the other. Instantly he closed the door 
and cast himself on Cortinez’s back. I had already launched 
myself at the Mexican’s throat. 

The struggle was violent but brief. Fortunately I had 
not missed my spring at our enemy’s windpipe, so he had 
been unable to shout. The noise of our scuffle sounded 
loud enough within the walls of the room; but those walls 
were two feet thick, and the door and windows closed. 

“Get something to gag him with, and the cords,” panted 
Tim to the girl. 

Brower opened his eyes again. 

95 


THE KILLER 


“I can beat that,” he announced. 

He produced his hypodermic and proceeded to mix a 
gunful of the dope. 

“This’ll fix him,” he observed, turning back the Mexican’s 
sleeve. “You can lay him outside and if anybody comes 
along they’ll think he’s asleep — as usual.” 

This we did, when the dope had worked. 

It was now high time to think of our next move. For 
weapons we had the gun and knife taken from Cortinez and 
the miserable little automatic belonging to Brower. That 
was all. It was perfectly evident that we could not get out 
through the regular^doorways ; as, by Tim’s statement, they 
were all closed and guarded. On my representation it was 
decided to try the'roof . 

We therefore knotted together the cord that had bound 
me, and two sheets from the bed; and sneaked cautiously 
out on the verandah, around the corner to the water barrel ; 
and so to the vantage point of the roof. 

The chill of the night was come; and the stars hung cold 
in the sky. It seemed that the air would snap and crackle 
were some little resolving element to be dropped into its 
suspended hush. Not a sound was to be heard except a slow 
drip of water from somewhere in the courtyard. 

It was agreed that I, as the heaviest, should descend first. 
I landed easily enough and steadied the rope for Miss Amory 
who came next. While I was waiting I distinctly heard, 
from the direction of the willows, the hooting of an owl. 
Furthermore it was a Great Horned Owl, and he seemed to 
have a lot to say. You remember what I told you about 
setting your mind soThat only one sort of noise will arouse 

96 


THE KILLER 


it: but that one instantly? I knew perfectly well that Old 
Man Hooper’s mind was set to all these smaller harmless 
noises that most people never notice at all, waking or sleep- 
ing — frogs, crickets, owls. And therefore I was convinced 
that sooner or later that old man and his foolish ideas and 
his shotgun would come projecting right across our well- 
planned getaway. Which was just what happened, and 
almost at once. Probably that Great Horned Owl had 
been hooting for some time, but we had been too busy to 
notice. I heard the wicket door turning on its hinges; and 
ventured a warning hiss to Brower and Tim Westmore, 
who had not yet descended. An instant later I could make 
out shadowy forms stealing toward the willows. Evidently 
those who served Old Man Hooper were accustomed to 
broken rest. 

We kept very quiet, straining our eyes at the willows. 
After an interval a long stab of light pierced the dusk and 
the round denotation of old-fashioned black powder shook 
the silence. There came to us the babbling of voices re- 
leased. At the same instant the newly-risen moon plas- 
tered us against that whitewashed wall like insects pinned 
in a cork-lined case. The moonlight must have been visibly 
creeping down to us for some few minutes, but so absorbed 
had I been in the doings of the party an the willows, and 
so chuckledheaded were the two on the roof, that actually 
none of us had noticed ! 

I dropped flat and dragged the girl down with me. But 
there remained that ridiculous plainly visible rope ; and any- 
way a shout relieved me of any doubt as to whether we had 
been seen. Brower came tumbling down on us; and with 

97 


THE KILLER 


one accord we three doubled to the right around the walls 
of the ranch. A revolver shot sang by us: but we were not 
immediately pursued. Our antagonists were too few and 
too uncertain of our numbers and arms. 

It was up to us to utilize the few minutes before the ranch 
should be aroused. We doubled back through the willows 
and across the mesquite flat toward the lone joshua tree 
where I had left my horse. I held the girl’s hand to help 
her when she stumbled, while Brower scuttled along with 
surprising endurance for a dope-wreck. Nobody said any- 
thing; but saved their wind. 

“ Where’s Tim,” I asked at a check when we had to 
scramble across a barranca. 

“He went back into the ranch the way we came,” replied 
Artie with some bitterness. 

It was, nevertheless, the wisest thing he could have done. 
He had not been identified with this outfit except by Cor- 
tinez, and Cortinez was safe for twelve hours. 

We found the joshua tree without difficulty. 

“Now,” said I, “here is the plan. You are to take these 
papers to Senor Buck Johnson, at the Box Springs Ranch. 
That’s the next ranch on the fork of the road. Do you re- 
member it?” 

“Yes,” said Brower, who had waked up and seemed quite 
sober and responsible. “ I can get to it.” 

“Wake him up. Show him these papers. Make him 
read them. Tell him that Miss Amory and I are in the 
Bat-eye tunnel. Remember that?” 

“The Bat-eye Tunnel,” repeated Artie. 

“Why don’t you go?” inquired the girl anxiously. 

98 


THE KILLER 


“I ride too heavy; and I know where the tunnel is,” I 
replied. “If anybody else was to go, it would be you. 
But Artie rides light and sure: and he’ll have to ride like hell. 
Here, put these papers inside your shirt. Be off ! ” 

Lights were flickering at the ranch as men ran to and fro 
with lanterns. It would not take these skilled mqueros 
long to catch their horses and saddle up. At any moment 
I expected to see the massive doors swing open to let loose 
the wolf pack. 

Brower ran to my horse — a fool proceeding, especially 
for an experienced horse man — and jerked lose the tie rope. 
Badger is a good reliable cow horse; but he’s not a million 
years old, and he’s got some natural equine suspicions. I 
kind of lay a good deal of it to that fool hard-boiled rat. At 
any rate he snorted and sagged back on the rope, hit a 
yucca point, whirled and made off. Artie was game. He 
hung on until he was drug into a bunch of chollas, and then 
he had to let go. Badger departed into the distance, tail 
up and snorting. 

“Well, you’ve done it now!” I observed to Brower, who, 
crying with nervous rage and chagrin, and undoubtedly 
considerably stuck up with chollas spines, was crawling 
to his feet. 

“Can’t we catch him? Won’t he stop?” asked Miss 
Amory. “ If he gets to the ranch, won’t they look for you? ” 

“He’s one of my range ponies: he won’t stop short of the 
Gila.” 

I cast over the chances in my mind, weighing my knowl- 
edge of the country against the probabilities of search. 
The proportion was small. Most of my riding experience 


99 


THE KILLER 


had been farther north and to the west. Such obvious hold- 
ups as the one I had suggested — the Bat-eye Tunnel — were 
of course familiar to our pursuers. My indecision must 
have seemed long, for the girl broke in anxiously on my 
meditations. 

“ Oughtn’t we to be moving?” 

“As well here as anywhere,” I replied. “We are under 
good cover; and afoot we could not much better ourselves 
as against mounted men. We must hide.” 

“But they may find the trampled ground where your 
horse has been tied.” 

“I hope they do.” 

“You hope they do!” 

“Sure. They’ll figure that we must sure have moved 
away. They’ll never guess we’d hide near at hand. At 
least that’s what I hope.” 

“How about tracks?” 

“ Not at night. By daylight maybe. ” 

“But then to-morrow morning they can ” 

“To-morrow morning is a long way off.” 

“Look ! ” cried Brower. 

The big gates of the ranch had been thrown open. The 
glare of a light — probably a locomotive headlight — poured 
out. Mounted figures galloped forth and swerved to right 
or left, spreading in a circle about the enclosure. The horse- 
men reined to a trot and began methodically to quarter the 
ground, weaving back and forth. Four detached them- 
selves and rode off at a swift gallop to the points of the com- 
pass. The mounted men were working fast for fear, I sup- 
pose, that we may have possessed horses. Another con tin- 


100 


THE KILLER 


gent, afoot and with lanterns, followed more slowly, going 
over the ground for indications. I could not but admire 
the skill and thoroughness of the plan. 

“Our only chance is in the shadow from the moon,” I 
told my companions. “If we can slip through the riders, 
and get in their rear, we may be able to follow the barranca 
down. Any of those big rocks will do. Lay low, and after 
a rider has gone over a spot, try to get to that spot without 
being seen.” 

We were not to be kept long in suspense. Out of all the 
three hundred and sixty degrees of the circle one of the 
swift outriders selected precisely our direction! Straight 
as an arrow he came for us, at full gallop. I could see the 
toss of his horse’s mane against the light from the opened 
door. There was no time to move. All we could do was 
to cower beneath our rock, muscles tense, and hope to be 
able to glide around the shadow as he passed. 

But he did not pass. Down into the shallow barranca 
he slid with a tinkle of shale, and drew rein within ten feet 
of our lurking place. 

We could hear the soft snorting of his mount above the 
thumping of our hearts. I managed to get into a position 
to steal a glimpse. It was difficult but at length I made out 
the statuesque-lines of the horse, and the rider himself, 
standing in his stirrups and leaning slightly forward, peer- 
ing intently about him. The figures were in silhouette 
against the sky, but nobody ever fooled me as to a horse. 
It was the Morgan Stallion, and the rider was Tim West- 
more. Just as the realization came to me, Tim uttered a 
low impatient whistle. 


IOI 


THE KILLER 


It’s always a good idea to take a chance. I arose into 
view — but I kept my gun handy. 

“ Thank God!” cried Tim fervently, under his breath. 
“I remembered you’d left your horse by this joshua: it’s the 
only landmark in the dark. Saints!” he ejaculated in 
dismay as he saw us all, “Where’s your horse? ” 

“Gone.” 

“We can’t all ride this stallion ” 

“Listen,” I cut in: and I gave him the same directions I 
had previously given Brower. He heard me attentively. 

“I can beat that,” he cut me off. He dismounted. 
“Get on here, Artie. Ride down the barranca two hundred 
yards and you’ll come to an alkali flat. Get out on that 
flat and ride like hell for Box Springs.” 

“Why don’t you do it?” 

“I’m going back and tell ’em how I was slugged and rob- 
bed of my horse.” 

“They’ll kill you if they suspect: dare you go back?” 

“I’ve been back once,” he pointed out! He was helping 
Brower aboard. 

“Where you get that bag?” he asked. 

“Found it by the rock where we were hiding: it’s mine,” 
replied Brower. 

Westmore tried to get him to leave it, but the little jockey 
was obstinate. He kicked his horse and, bending low, rode 
away. 

“You’re right: I beg your pardon.” I answered West- 
more’s remark to me “You don’t look slugged.” 

“That’s easy fixed,” said Tim calmly. He removed 
his hat and hit his forehead a very solid blow against a pro- 


102 


THE KILLER 

jection of the conglomerate boulder. The girl screamed 
slightly. 

“Hush!” warned Tim in a fierce whisper. He raised his 
hand toward the approaching horsemen, who were now very 
near. Without attention to the blood streaming from 
his brow he bent his head to listen to the faint clinking of 
steel against rock that marked the stallion’s progress 
toward the alkali flat. The searchers were by now danger- 
ously close, and Tim uttered a smothered oath of impatience. 
But at last we distinctly heard the faint soft thud of gallop- 
ing hoofs. 

The searchers heard it too, and reined up to listen. Tim 
thrust into my hand the 30-30 Winchester he was carrying 
together with a box of cartridges. Then with a leap like 
a tiger he gained the rim of the barranca. Once, there, 
however, his forces seemed to desert him. He staggered 
forward calling in a weak voice. I could hear the volley 
of rapid questions shot at him by the men who immediately 
surrounded him; and his replies. Then somebody fired a 
revolver thrice in rapid succession and the whole caval- 
cade swept away with a mightly crackling of brush. 
Immediately after Tim rejoined us. I had not expected 
this. 

Relieved for the moment we hurried Miss Amory rapidly 
up the bed of the shallow wash. The tunnel mentioned was 
part of an old mine operation, undertaken at some remote 
period before the cattle days. It entered the base of one 
of those isolated conical hills, lying like islands in the plain, 
so common in Arizona. From where we had hidden, it lay 
about three miles to the northeast. It was a natural and 


103 


THE KILLER 


obvious hide out, and I had no expectation of remaining 
unmolested. My hope lay in rescue. 

We picked our way under cover of the ravine as long as 
we could; then struck boldly across the plain. Nobody 
seemed to be following us. A wild hope entered my heart 
that perhaps they might believe we had all made our escape 
to Box Springs. 

As we proceeded the conviction was borne in on me that 
the stratagen had at least saved us from immediate capture. 
Like most men who ride I had very sketchy ideas of what 
three miles afoot is like — at night — in high heels. The 
latter affliction was common to both Miss Amoryand myself. 
She had on a sort of bedroom slipper, and I wore the usual 
cowboy boots. We began to go footsore about the same 
time, and the little rolling volcanic rocks among the bunches 
of sacatone did not help us a bit. Tim made good time, 
curse him. Or rather, bless him; for as I just said, if he had 
not tolled away our mounted pursuit we would have been 
caught as sure as God made little green apples. He seemed 
as lively as a cricket, in spite of the dried blood across his face. 

The moon was now sailing well above the horizon throw- 
ing the world into silver and black velvet. When we moved 
in the open we showed up like a train of cars; but on the 
other hand the shadow was a cloak. It was by now nearly 
one o’clock in the morning. 

Miss Amory’s nerve did not belie the clear steadfast look 
of her eye; but she was about all in when we reached the 
foot of Bat-eye-Butte. Tim and I had discussed the pro- 
cedure as we walked. I was for lying in wait outside; but 
Tim pointed out that the tunnel entrance was well down in 

104 


THE KILLER 


the boulders, that even the sharpest outlook could not be 
sure of detecting an approach through the shadows, and 
that from the shelter of the roof props and against the light 
we should be able to hold off a large force almost indefinitely. 
In any case we would have to gamble on Brower’s winning 
through, and having sense enough in his opium-saturated 
mind to make a convincing yarn of it. So after a drink at 
the tenaja below the mine, we entered the black square of the 
tunnel. 

The work was old, but it had been well done. They must 
have dragged the timbers down from the White Mountains. 
Indeed a number of unused beams; both trunks of trees 
and squared, still lay around outside. From time to time, 
since the original operations, some locoed prospector comes 
projecting along and does a little work in hopes he may find 
something the other fellow had missed. So the passage 
was crazy with props and supports, new and old, placed to 
brace the ageing overhead timbers. Going in they were a 
confounded nuisance against the bumped head; but looking 
back toward the square of light they made fine protections 
behind which to crouch. In this part of the country any 
tunnel would be dry. It ran straight for about a hundred 
and fifty feet. 

We groped our way about seventy-five feet, which was as 
far as we could make out the opening distinctly, and sat 
down to wait. I still had the rest of the tailor made cig- 
arettes, which I shared with Tim. We did not talk, for we 
wished to listen for sounds outside. To judge by her 
breathing, I think Miss Amory dozed, or even went to 
sleep. 


THE KILLER 


About an hour later I thought to hear a single tinkle of 
shale. Tim heard it too, for he nudged me. Our straining 
ears caught nothing further however; and I, for one, had 
relaxed from my tension when the square of light was 
darkened by a figure. I was nearest, so I raised Cortinez’s 
gun and fired. The girl uttered a scream, and the figure 
disappeared. I don’t know yet whether I hit him or not; 
we never found any blood. 

We made Miss Amory lie down behind a little slide of 
rock, and disposed ourselves under shelter. 

“We can take them as fast as they come,” exulted 
Tim. 

“I don’t believe there are over two or three of them,” I 
observed. “It would be only a scouting party. They 
will go for help.” 

As there was no longer reason for concealment, we talked 
aloud and freely. 

Now ensued a long waiting interim. We could hear 
various sounds outside as of moving to and fro. The enemy 
had likewise no reason for further concealment. 

“Look!” suddenly cried Tim, “Something crawling.” 

He raised the 30-30 and fired. Before the flash and the 
fumes had blinded me I too had seen indistinctly some- 
thing low and prone gliding around the corner of the en- 
trance. That was all we could make out of it; for as you 
can imagine the light was almost non-existent. The thing 
glided steadily, untouched or unmindful of the shots we 
threw at it. When it came to the first of the crazy uprights 
supporting the roof timbers it seemed to hesitate gropingly. 
Then it drew slowly back a foot or so, and darted forward. 

106 


THE KILLER 


The ensuing thud enlightened us. The thing was one of 
the long squared timbers we had noted outside; and it was 
being used as a battering ram. 

“ They’ll bring the whole mountain down on us!” cried 
Tim springing forward. 

But even as he spoke, and before he had moved two feet, 
that catastrophe seemed at least to have begun. The prop 
gave way: the light at the entrance was at once blotted 
out; the air was filled with terrifying roaring echoes. There 
followed a succession of crashes, the rolling of rocks over 
each other, the grinding slide of avalanches great and small. 
We could scarcely breathe for the dust. Our danger was 
that now the thing was started it would not stop : that the 
antique and inadequate supports would all give way, one 
bringing down the other in succession until we were buried. 
Wouldjthe forces of equilibrium’establish themselves through 
the successive slight resistances of these rotted worm eaten 
old timbers before the constricted space in which we crouch- 
ed should be entirely eaten away? 

After the first great crash there ensued a moment’s hesi- 
tation. Then a second span succumbed. There followed 
a series of minor chutes with short intervening silences. At 
last so long an interval of calm ensued that we plucked up 
courage to believe it all over. A single stone rolled a few 
feet and hit the rock floor with a bang. Then, immediately 
after, the first [deafening thunder was repeated as evidently 
another span gave way. It sounded as though the whole 
mountain had moved. I was almost afraid to stretch out 
my hand for fear it would encounter the wall of debris. The 
roar ceased as abruptly as it had begun. Followed then a 


107 


THE KILLER 


long silence. Then a little cascading tinkle of shale. And 
another dead silence. 

“I believe it’s over,” ventured Miss Amory, after a long 
time. 

“Em going to find out how bad it is,” I asserted. 

I moved forward cautiously, my arms extended before 
me, feeling my way with my feet. Foot after foot I went, 
encountering nothing but the props. Expecting as I did 
to meet an obstruction within a few paces at most, I soon 
lost my sense of distance : after a few moments it seemed to 
me that I must have gone much farther then the original 
length of the tunnel. At last I stumbled over a frag- 
ment; and so found my fingers against a rough mass of 
debris. 

“Why, this is fine!” I cried to the others, “I don’t 
believe more than a span or so has gone!” 

I struck one of my few remaining matches to make sure. 
While of course I had no very accurate mental image of the 
original state of things, still it seemed to me there was an 
awful lot of tunnel left. As the whole significance of our 
situation came to me, I laughed aloud. 

“Well,” said I cheerfully. “They couldn’t have done 
us a better favour! It’s a half hour’s job to dig us out, and 
in the meantime we are safe as a covered bridge. We don’t 
even have to keep watch.” 

“Provided Brower gets through,” the girl reminded us. 

“He’ll get through,” assented Tim positively. “There’s 
nothing on four legs can catch that Morgan stallion.” 

I opened my watch crystal and felt of the hands. Half 
past two. 

108 


THE KILLER 


“Four or five hours before they can get here,” I an- 
nounced. 

“ We’d better go to sleep, I think,” said Miss Amory. 

“Good idea,” I approved. “Just pick your rocks and 
go to it.” 

I sat down and leaned against one of the uprights, ex- 
pecting fully to wait with what patience I might the march 
of events. Sleep was the farthest thing from my thoughts. 
When I came to I found myself doubled on my side with a 
short piece of ore sticking in my ribs and eighteen or twenty 
assorted cramp-pains in various parts of me. This was 
all my consciousness had room to attend to for a few mo- 
ments. Then I became dully aware of faint tinkling sounds 
and muffled shoutings from the outer end of the tunnel. 
I shouted in return and made my way as rapidly as possible 
toward the late entrance. 

A half hour later we crawled cautiously through a pre- 
carious opening and stood blinking at the sunlight. 


109 


CHAPTER XV 


A group of about twenty men greeted our appearance 
with a wild cowboy yell. Some of the men of our outfit 
were there, but not all; and I recognized others from as far 
south as the Chiracahuas. Windy Bill was there with Jed 
Parker; but Senor Johnson’s bulky figure was nowhere to 
be seen. The other men were all riders — nobody of any 
particular standing or authority. The sun made it about 
three o’clock of the afternoon. Out adventures had cer- 
tainly brought us a good sleep! 

After we had satisfied our thirst from a canteen we began 
to ask and answer questions. Artie Brower had made the 
ranch without mishap, had told his story, and had promptly 
fallen asleep. Buck Johnson, in his usual deliberate man- 
ner, read all the papers through twice; pondered for some 
time while the more excited Jed and Windy fidgetted im- 
patiently: and then, his mind made up, acted with his cus- 
tomary decision. Three men he sent to reconnoiter in the 
direction of the Bat-eye Tunnel with instructions to keep 
out of trouble and to report promptly. His other riders 
he dispatched with an insistent summons to all the leading 
cattlemen as far south as the Chiracahua Range, as far 
east as Grant’s Pass, as far west as Madrona. Such was 
Buck f Johnson’s reputation for level-headedness that with- 
out hesitation these men saddled and rode at their best 


no 


THE KILLER 


speed. By noon the weightest of the Soda Spring Valley 
had gathered in conclave. 

“ That’s where we faded out,” said Jed Parker. “They 
sent us up to see about you-all. The scouts from up here 
come back with their little Wild West story about knocking 
down this yere mountain on top of you. We had to believe 
them because they brought back a little proof with them. 
Mex guns and spurs and such plunder looted off’n the de- 
ceased on the field of battle. Bill here can tell you.” 

“They was only two of them,” said Windy Bill, diffident 
for the first time in his life, “and we managed to catch one 
of ’em foul.” 

“We been digging here for too long. We ain’t no prairie 
dogs to go delving into the bosom of the earth. We 
thought you must be plumb deceased anyhow: we couldn’t 
get a peep out of you. I was in favour of leavin’ you lay 
myself. This yere Butte seemed like a first rate imposing 
tomb ; and I was willing myself to carve a few choice senti- 
ments on some selected rock. Sure I can carve! But Jed 
here allowed that you owed him ten dollars and maybe had 
some money in your pocket ” 

“Shut up, Windy,” I broke in, “Can’t you see the young 
lady ” 

Windy whirled all contrition and apologies. 

“Don’t you mind me, ma’am,” he begged, “They call 
me Windy Bill, and I reckon that’s about right. I don’t 
mean nothing. And we’d have dug all through this butte 
before ” 

“I know that. It isn’t your talk,” interrupted Miss Amory, 
“ but the sun is hot— and — haven’t you anything at all to eat? ’ 


hi 


THE KILLER 


“ Suffering giraffes!’’ cried Windy above the chorus of dis- 
may. “Lunkheads! chumps! Of all the idiot plays ever 
made in this territory ! ” He turned to the dismayed group- 
“Ain’t any one of you boys had sense enough to bring any 
grub?” 

But nobody had. The old fashioned Arizona cowboy ate 
only twice a day. It would never occur to him to carry a 
lunch for noon. Still they might have considered a rescue 
party’s probable needs. 

We mounted and started for the Box Springs Ranch. 
They had at least known enough to bring extra horses. 

“Old Hooper knows the cat is out of the bag now,” I 
suggested as we rode along. 

“He sure does.” 

“Do you think he’ll stick: or will he get out?” 

“He’ll stick.” 

“I don’t know ” I argued doubtfully. 

“I do,” with great positiveness, 

“Why are you so sure.” 

“There are men in the brush all around his ranch to see 
that he does.” 

“For heaven’s sake how many have you got together?” I 
cried, astonished. 

“About three hundred,” said Jed. 

“What’s the plan?” 

“I don’t know. They were chewing over it when I left. 
But I’ll bet something’s going to pop. There’s a bunch of 
’em on that sweet little list you-all dug up.” 

We rode slowly. It was near five o’clock when we pulled 
down the lane toward the big corrals. The latter were full 


1 1 2 


THE KILLER 


of riding horses, and the fences were topped with neatly- 
arranged saddles. Men were everywehre, seated in rows 
on top rails, gathered in groups, leaning idly against the 
ranch buildings. There was a feeling of waiting. 

We were discovered and acclaimed with a wild yell that 
brought everybody running. Immediately we were sur- 
rounded. Escorted by a clamouring multitude we moved 
slowly down the lane and into the enclosure. 

There awaited us a dozen men, headed by Buck Johnson. 
They emerged from the office as we drew up. At sight of 
them the cowboys stopped, and we moved forward alone. 
For here were the substantial men of this part of the terri- 
tory, the Old Timers, who had come in the early days and 
who had persisted through the Indian wars, the border 
forays, the cattle rustlings, through drought and enmity 
and bad years. A grim elderly four square unsmiling little 
band of granite-faced pioneers, their very appearance car- 
ried a conviction of direct and, if necessary, ruthless action. 
At sight of them my heart leaped. Twenty-four hours pre- 
vious my case had seemed none too joyful. Now, mainly 
by my own efforts, after all, I was no longer alone. 

They did not waste time in vain congratulations or query. 
The occasion was too grave for such side issues. Buck 
Johnson said something very brief to the effect that he was 
glad to see us safe. 

“If this young lady will come in first,” he suggested. 

But I was emboldened to speak up. 

“This young lady has not had a bite to eat since last 
night,” I interposed. 

The senor bent on me his grave look. 

113 


THE KILLER 


“Thank you,” said he, “Sing!” he roared: and then to 
the Chinaman who showed up in a nervous hover: “Give 
this lady grub, savy? If you’ll go with him ma’am, he’ll 
get you up something. Then we’d like to see you.” 

“I can perfectly well wait ” she began. 

“I’d rather not, ma’am,” said Buck with such grave 
finality that she merely bowed and followed the cook. 


CHAPTER XVI 


They had no tender feelings about me, however. No- 
body cared whether I ever ate or not. I was led into the 
little ranch office and catechized to a fare-ye-well. They 
sat and roosted and squatted about, emitting solemn puffs 
of smoke and speaking never a word; and the sun went 
down in shafts of light through the murk, and the old 
shadows of former days crept from the corners. When I 
had finished my story it was dusk. 

And on the heels of my recital came the sound of hoofs 
in a hurry; and presently loomed in the doorway the gigan- 
tic figure of Tom Thorne, the sheriff. He peered, seeing 
nothing through the smoke and the twilight; and the old 
timers sat tight and smoked. 

“Buck Johnson here?” asked Thorne in his big voice. 

“Here,” replied the Senor. 

“I am told,” said Thorne directly, “that there is here an 
assembly for unlawful purposes. If so, I call on you in the 
name of the law to keep the peace.” 

“Tom,” rejoined Buck Johnson, “I want you to make me 
your deputy.” 

“For what purpose.” 

“There is a dispossession notice to be served hereabouts; 
a trespasser who must be put off from property that is not 
his.” 


THE KILLER 


“You men are after Hooper, and I know it. Now you 
can’t run your neighbours’ quarrels with a gun, not anymore. 
This is a country of law now.” 

“Tom,” repeated Buck in a reasoning tone, “Come in. 
Strike a light if you want to : and take a look around. 
There’s lot of your friends here. There’s Jim Carson over 
in the corner, and Donald Macomber, and Marcus Malley, 
and Dan Watkins.” 

At this slow telling of the most prominent names in the 
southwest cattle industry Tom Thorne took a step into the 
room and lighted a match. The little flame, held high above 
his head, burned down to his fingers while he stared at the 
impassive faces surrounding him. Probably he had thought 
to interfere dutifully in a local affair of considerable serious- 
ness; and there is no doubt that Tom Thorne was never 
afraid of his duty. But here was Arizona itself gathered 
for purposes of its own. He hardly noticed when the flame 
scorched his fingers. 

“Tom,” said Buck Johnson after a moment, “I heerd tell 
of a desperate criminal headed for Grant’s Pass, and I figure 
you can just about catch up with him if you start right now 
and keep on riding. Only you’d better make me your 
deputy first. It’ll sort of leave things in good legal respon- 
sible hands, as you can always easy point out if asked.” 

Tom gulped. 

“Raise your right hand,” he commanded curtly, and ad- 
ministered the oath. “Now I leave it in your hands to 
preserve the peace,” he concluded, “I call you all to wit- 
ness.” 

“That’s all right, Tom,” said Buck, still in his crooning 
116 


THE KILLER 


tones, taking the big sheriff by the elbow and gently pro- 
pelling him toward the door, “now as to this yere criminal 
over towards Grant’s Pass, he was a little bit of a runt about 
six foot three tall; heavy set, weight about a hundred and 
ten; light complected with black hair and eyes. You can’t 
help but find him. Tom’s a good sort,” he observed, coming 
back, “but he’s young. He don’t realize yet that when 
things get real serious this sheriff foolishness just nat’rally 
bogs down. Now I reckon we’d better talk to the girl.” 

I made a beeline for the cook house while they did that 
and filled up for three. By the time I had finished, the 
conference was raised, and men were catching and saddling 
their mounts. I did not intend to get left out, you may be 
sure, so I rustled around and borrowed me a saddle and a 
horse, and was ready to start with the rest. 

We jogged up the road in a rough sort of column, the old 
timers riding ahead in a group of their own. No injunction 
had been laid as to keeping quiet ; nevertheless conversation 
was sparse and low voiced. The men mostly rode in silence 
smoking their cigareets. About half way the leaders sum- 
moned me, and I trotted up to join them. 

They wanted to know about the situation of the ranch 
as I had observed it. I could not encourage them much. 
My recollection made of the place a thoroughly protected 
walled fortress, capable of resisting a considerable assault. 

“Of course with this gang we could sail right over them,” 
observed Buck thoughtfully, “but we’d lose a considerable 
of men doing it.” 

“Ain’t no chance of sneaking somebody inside?” suggested 
Watkins. 

117 


THE KILLER 


“ Got to give Old Man Hooper credit for some sense,” 
replied the senor shortly. 

“We can starve ’em out,” suggested somebody. 

“Unless I miss the old man a mile he’s already got a mes- 
senger headed for the troops at Fort Huachuca,” interposed 
Macomber, “He ain’t fool enough to take chances on a local 
sheriff.” 

“You’re tooting he ain’t,” approved Buck Johnson, “It’s 
got to be quick work.” 

“Burn him out,” said Watkins. 

“It’s the young lady’s property,” hesitated my boss, “I 
kind of hate to destroy it unless we have to.” 

At this moment the Morgan Stallion, which I had not 
noticed before, was reined back to join our little group. 
Atop him rode the diminutive form of Artie Brower whom 
I had thought down and out. He had evidently had his 
evening’s dose of hop and under the excitation of the first 
effect had joined the party. His derby hat was flattened 
down to his ears. Somehow it exasperated me. 

“For heaven’s sake why don’t you get you a decent hat ! ” 
I muttered, but to myself. He was carrying that precious 
black bag. 

“Blow a hole in his old walls!” he suggested cheerfully. 
“ That old fort was built against In jins. A man could sneak 
up in the shadow and set her off. It wouldn’t take but a 
dash of soup to stick a hole you could ride through a horse- 
back.” 

“Soup?” echoed Buck. 

“Nitroglycerine,” explained Watkins, who had once been 
a miner. 

118 


THE KILLER 

“Oh, sure!” agreed Buck sarcastically, “And where’d 
we get it.” 

“I always carry a little with me just for emergencies,” 
asserted Brower calmly and patted his black bag. 

There was a sudden and unanimous edging away. 

“For the love of Pete!” I cried, “Was there some of that 
stuff in there all the time I’ve been carrying it around?” 

“It’s packed good: it can’t go off,” Artie reassured us. 
“I know my biz.” 

“What in God’s name do you want such stuff for!” cried 
Judson. 

“Oh, just emergencies,” answered Brower vaguely: but 
I remembered his uncanny skill in opening the combination 
of the safe. Possibly that contract between Amory and 
Hooper had come into his hands through professional activ- 
ities. However, that did not matter. 

“I can make a drop of soup go farther than other men a 
pint,” boasted Artie, “I’ll show you: and I’ll show that 
old ” 

“You’ll probably get shot,” observed Buck, watching him 
closely. 

“ W’at t’hell,” observed Artie with an airy gesture. 

“It’s the dope he takes,” I told Johnson aside, “It only 
lasts about so long. Get him going before it dies on him.” 

“I see. Trot right along.” Buck commanded. 

Taking this as permission Brower clapped heels to the 
stallion and shot away like an arrow. 

“Hold on! Stop! Oh damn!” ejaculated the Senor. 
“He’ll gum the whole game! ” He spurred forward in pur- 
suit, realized the hopelessness of trying to catch the Morgan 
119 


THE KILLER 


and reined down again to a brisk travelling canter. We sur- 
mounted the long slow rise this side of Hoopers in time to 
see a man stand out in the brush, evidently for the purpose 
of challenging the horseman. Artie paid him not the slight- 
est attention, but swept by magnificently, the great stallion 
leaping high in his restrained vitality. The outpost 
promptly levelled his rifle. We saw the vivid flash in the 
half fight. Brower reeled in his saddle, half fell, caught 
himself by the stallion’s mane and clung, swinging to and 
fro. The horse, freed of control, tossed his head, laid back 
his ears, and ran straight as an arrow for the great doors 
of the ranch. 

We uttered a simultaneous groan of dismay. Then with 
one accord we struck spurs and charged at full speed, grimly 
and silently. Against the gathering hush of evening rose 
only the drum-roll of our horses’ hoofs and the dust cloud 
of their going. Except that Buck Johnson, rising in his stir- 
rups, let off three shots in the air; and at the signal from all 
points around the beleagured ranch men arose from the 
brush and mounted concealed horses, and rode out into the 
open with rifles poised. 

The stallion thundered on; and the little jockey managed 
to cling to the saddle, though how he did it none of us could 
tell. In the bottom land near the ranch he ran out of the 
deeper dusk into a band of the strange luminous after-glow 
that follows erratically sunset in wide spaces. Then we 
could see that he was not only holding his seat, but was 
trying to do something, just what we could not make out. 
The reins were flying free, so there was no question of re- 
gaining control. 


120 


THE KILLER 


A shot flashed at him from the ranch; then a second; after 
which, as though at command, the firing ceased. Prob- 
ably the condition of affairs had been recognized. 

All this we saw from a distance. The immensity of the 
Arizona country, especially at dusk when the mountains 
withdraw behind their veils and mystery flows into the 
bottomlands, has always a panoramic quality that throws 
small any human-sized activities. The ranch houses and 
their attendant trees look like toys; the bands of cattle 
and the men working them are as though viewed through 
the reverse lenses of a glass ; and the very details of mesquite 
or sacatone flats, of alkali shallow or of oak grove are blended 
into broad washes of tone. But now the distant galloping 
horse with its swaying mannikin charging on the ranch 
seemed to fill our world. The great forces of portent that 
hover aloof in the dusk of the desert, stooped as with a rush 
of wings. The peaceful wide spaces and the veiled hills and 
the brooding skies were swept clear. Crisis filled our souls : 
crisis laid her hand on every living moving thing in the 
world, stopping it in its tracks so that the very infinities 
for a brief wierd period seemed poised over the running 
horse and the swaying fumbling man. 

At least that is the way it affected me; and subsequent 
talk leads me to believe that that it is how it affected every 
man jack of us. We all had different ways of expressing it. 
Windy Bill subsequently remarked; “I felt like some old 
Injun He-God had just told me to crawl in my hole and give 
them that knew how a chanct.” 

But I know we all stopped short, frozen in our tracks, and 
stared, and I don’t believe man, or horse, drew a deep breath. 


I 21 


THE KILLER 


Nearer and nearer the stallion drew to the ranch. Now 
he was within a few yards. In another moment he would 
crash head on, at tremendous speed, into the closed mas- 
sive doors. The rider seemed to have regained somewhat 
of his strength. He was sitting straight in the saddle, was 
no longer clinging. But apparently he was making no effort 
to regain control. His head was bent and he was still 
fumbling at something; The distance was too great for us 
to make out what, but that much we could see. 

On flew the stallion at undiminished speed. He was 
running blind; and seemingly nothing could save him from 
a crash. But at almost the last moment the great doors 
swung back. Those within had indeed realized the situa- 
tion and were meeting it. At the same instant Brower rose 
in his stirrups and brought his arm forward in a wide free 
swing. A blinding glare flashed across the world. We felt 
the thud and heave of a tremendous explosion. Dust oblit- 
erated everything. 

“ Charge, you coyotes ! Charge ! ” shrieked Buck Johnson. 

And at full speed, shrieking like fiends we swept across 
flats. 


122 


CHAPTER XVII 


There was no general resistance. We tumbled pell mell 
through the breach into the courtyard, encountering only 
terror-stricken wretches who cowered still dazed by the 
unexpectedness and force of the explosion. In the excite- 
ment order and command were temporarily lost. The men 
swarmed through the ranch buildings like locusts. Senor 
Buck Johnson and the other old timers let them go; but I 
noticed they themselves scattered here and there keeping a 
restraining eye on activities. There was to be no looting: 
and that was early made plain. 

But before matters had a chance to go very far, we were 
brought up all standing by the sound of shots outside. A 
rush started in that direction: but immediately Buck John- 
son asserted his authority and took command. He did 
not intend to have his men shot unnecessarily. 

By now it was pitch dark. A reconnaisance disclosed a 
little battle going on down toward the water corrals. Two 
of our men, straying in that direction, had been fired upon. 
They had promptly gone down on their bellies and were 
shooting back. 

“I think they’ve got down behind the water troughs,” 
one of these men told me as I crawled up alongside. “ Cain’t 
say how many there is. They shore do spit fire consider- 
able. I’m just cuttin’ loose where I see the flash. When 


123 


THE KILLER 


I shoot, you prepare to move and move lively. One of 
those horned toads can sure shoot some; and it ain’t healthy 
to linger none behind your own flash.” 

The boys, when I crawled back with my report, were eager 
to pile in and rush the enemy. 

“Just put us a hoss-back, Senor,” pleaded Windy Bill, 
“and we’ll run right over them like a Shanghai rooster over 
a little green snake. They can’t hit nothing moving fast 
in the dark.” 

“You’ll do just what I say,” rejoined Buck Johnson 
fiercely. “Cow hands are scarce, and I don’t aim to lose 
one except in the line of business. If any man gets shot to- 
night, he’s out of luck. He’d better get shot good and dead ; 
or he’ll wish he had been. That goes! There can’t be but 
a few of those renegades out there, and we’ll tend to them 
in due order. Watkins,” he addressed that old-timer, 
“You tend to this. Feel around cautious. Fill up the place 
full of lead. Work your men around through the brush 
until you get them surrounded, and then just squat and 
shoot and wait for morning.” 

Watkins sent out a dozen of the nearest men to circle 
the water troughs in order to cut off further retreat, if 
that were projected. Then he went about methodically 
selecting others to whom he assigned various stations. 

“Now you get a-plenty of catteridges,” he told them, 
“ and you lay low and shoot ’em off. And if any of you gets 
shot I’ll sure skin him alive!” 

In the meantime the locomotive lantern had been lit so 
that the interior of the courtyard was thrown into brilliant 
light. Needless to say the opening blown in the walls did 


124 


THE KILLER 


not face toward the water corrals. Of Artie Brower and 
the Morgan Stallion we found hardly a trace. They had 
been literally blown to pieces. Not one of us who had 
known him but felt in his heart a kindly sorrow for the 
strange little man. The sentry who had fired at him and 
who had thus, indirectly, precipitated the catastrophe was 
especially downcast. 

“I told him to stop, and he kep’ right on a-going, so I 
shot at him,” he explained. “What else was I to do? 
How t was I to know he didn’t belong to that gang? He 
acted like it.” 

But when you think of it how could it have come out 
better? Poor, weak, vice-ridden likeable little beggar, 
what could the future have held for him? And it is prob- 
able that his death saved many lives. 

The prisoners were brought in — some forty of them, for 
Old Man Hooper maintained only the home ranch and all 
his cowhands as well as his personal bravos were gathered 
here. Buck Johnson separated apart seven of them, and 
ordered the others into the stables under guard. 

“Bad hombres, all of them,” he observed to Jed Parker. 
“We’ll just nat’rally ship them across the line very pronto. 
But these seven are worse than bad hombres. We’ll have 
to see about them.” 

But niether Andreas, Ramon nor Old Man Hooper him- 
self were among those present. 

“ Maybe they slipped out through our guards; but I doubt 
it,” said Buck. “I believe we’ve identified that peevish 
lot by the water troughs.” 

The firing went on quite briskly for a while; then slack- 

125 


THE KILLER 


ened, and finally died to an occasioned burst, mainly from 
our own side. Under our leader's direction the men fed 
their horses and made themselves comfortable. I was sum- 
moned to the living quarters to explain on the spot the 
events that had gone before. Here we examined more 
carefully and in detail the various documents — the extra- 
ordinary directions to Ramon: the list of prospective vic- 
tims to be offered at the tomb, so to speak, of Old Man 
Hooper; and the copy of the agreement between Amory 
and Hooper. The latter, as I had surmised, stated in so 
many words that it superceded and nullified an old partner- 
ship agreement. This started us on a further search which 
was at last rewarded by the discovery of that original part- 
nership. It contained, again as I had surmised, the not 
uncommon clause that in case of the death of one or the 
other of the partners without direct heirs the common 
property should revert to the other. I felt very stuck on 
myself for a good guesser. The only trouble was that the 
original of the second agreement was lacking: we had only 
a copy, and of course without signatures. It will be re- 
membered that Brower said he had deposited it with a 
third party: and that third party was to us unknown. We 
could not even guess in what city he lived. Of course we 
could advertise. But Windy Bill who — leaning his long 
figure against the wall — had been listening in silence — a 
pretty fair young miracle in itself — , had a good idea; which 
was the real miracle, in my estimation. 

“Look here;” he broke in, “if I've been following the 
plot of this yere dime novel correctly, its plumb easy. Just 
catch Jud — Jud — you know, the editor of the Cochise 

126 


THE KILLER 


Branding Iron , and get him to telegraph a piece to the other 
papers that Artie Brower celebrated jockey et ceterer has 
met a violent death at Hooper’s Ranch, details as yet un- 
known. That’s the catch-word, as I savey it. When this 
yere third party sees that, he goes and records the paper, 
and there you are!” 

Windy leaned back dramatically and looked exceedingly 
pleased with himself. 

“Yes, that’s it,” approved Buck briefly, which disap- 
pointed Windy, who was looking for high enconium. 

At this moment a messenger came in from the firing 
party to report that apparently all opposition had ceased. 
At least there had been for some time no shooting from the 
direction of the water troughs; a fact concealed from us by 
the thickness of the ranch walls. Buck Johnson imme- 
diately went out to confer with Watkins. 

“I kind of think we’ve got ’em all,” was the latter’s 
opinion. “We haven’t had a sound out of ’em for a half 
hour. It may be a trick of course.” 

“Sure they haven’t slipped by you?” suggested the 
Senor. 

“Pretty certain. We’ve got a close circle.” 

“Well, I wouldn’t take chances in the dark. Just lay 
low ’till morning.” 

We returned to the ranch house where, after a little 
further discussion, I bedded down and immediately fell 
into a deep sleep. This was more and longer continued 
excitement than I was used to. 

I was afoot with the first stirrings of dawn, you may be 
sure, and out to join the party that moved with infinite 

127 


THE KILLER 


precaution on the water troughs as soon as it was light 
enough to see clearly. We found them riddled with bullets 
and the water all run out. Gleaming brass cartridges scat- 
tered catching the first rays of the sun attested the vigour 
of the defense. Four bodies lay huddled on the ground 
under the partial shelter of the troughs. I saw Ramon, 
his face frowning and sinister even in death, his right hand 
still grasping tenaciously the stock of his Winchester; and 
Andreas flat on his face; and two others whom I did not 
recognize. Ramon had been hit at least four times. -But 
of Hooper himself was no hide nor hair ! So certain had we 
been that he had escaped to this spot with his familiars 
that we were completely taken aback at his absence. 

“We got just about as much sense as a bunch of sheep- 
men!” cried Buck Johnson, exasperated. “He’s probably 
been hiding out somewhere about the place. God knows 
where he is by now!” 

But just as we were about to return to the ranch house we 
were arrested by a shout from one of the cowboys who had 
been projecting around the neighbourhood. He came 
running to us. In his hand he held a blade of sacatone on 
which he pointed out a single dark spot about the size of 
the head of a pin. Buck seized it and examined it closely. 

“Blood all right,” he said at last, “Where did you get 
this, son?” 

The man, a Chiracahua hand named Curley something- 
or-other indicated a sacatone bottom a hundred yards to the 
west. 

“You got good eyes, son,” Buck complimeted him. 
“Think you can make out the trail?” 

128 


THE KILLER 

“Do’no,” said Curley. “Used to do a considerable of 
tracking.” 

“Horses!” commanded Buck. 

We followed Curley afoot while several men went to 
saddle up. On the edge of the two foot jump-off we grouped 
ourselves waiting while Curley, his brows knit tensely, 
quartered here and there like a setter dog. He was a good 
trailer, you could see that in a minute. He went at it right. 
After quite a spell he picked up a rock and came back to 
show it. I should never have noticed anything — merely 
another tiny black spot among other spots, — but Buck 
nodded instantly he saw it. 

“It’s about ten rods west of whar I found the grass,’’ 
said Curley. “Looks like he’s headed for that water in 
Cockeye Basin. From thar he could easy make Cochise 
when he got rested.” 

“Looks likely,” agreed Buck. “Can’t you find no foot- 
prints? ” 

“Too much tramped up by cowboys and other jack- 
asses,” said Curley. “It’ll come easier when we get out- 
side this yere battlefield.” 

He stood erect sizing up the situation through half 
squinted eyes. 

“You-all wait here,” he decided. “Chances are he kept 
right on up the broad wash.” 

He mounted one of the horses that had now arrived and 
rode at a lope to a point nearly half a mile west. There he 
dismounted and tied his horse to the ground. After rather 
a prolonged search he raised his hand over his head and 
described several small horizontal circles in the air. 


129 


THE KILLER 


“Been in the army, have you?’’ muttered Buck, “well I 
will say you’re a handy sort of leather-leg to have around. 
He gave the soldier signal for ‘assemble’” he answered Jed 
Parker’s question. 

We rode over to join Curley. 

“It’s all right; he came this way,” said the latter; but he 
did not trouble to show us indications. I am a pretty fair 
game trailer myself, but I could make out nothing. 

We proceeded slowly, Curley afoot leading his horse. 
The direction continued to be toward Cockeye. Sometimes 
we could all see plain footprints; again the trail was, at 
least as far as I was concerned, a total loss. Three times 
we found blood, once in quite a splash. Occasionally even 
Curley was at fault for a few moments; but in general he 
moved forward at a rapid walk. 

“This Curley person is all right,” observed Windy Bill 
after a while, “I was brung up to find my way about, and 
I can puzzle out most anywhere a critter has gone and left 
a sign; but this yere Curley can track a humming bird acrost 
a granite boulder!” 

After a little while Curley stopped for us to catch 
up. 

“Seems to me no manner of doubt but what he’s headed 
for Cockeye,” he said, “There ain’t no other place for him 
to go out this way. I reckon I can pick up enough of this 
trail just riding along. If we don’t find no sign at Cockeye, 
we can just naturally back track and pick up where he 
turned off. We’ll save time that-away, and he’s had plenty 
of time to get thar and back again.” 

So Curley mounted and we rode on at a walk on the horse 

130 


THE KILLER 

trail that led up the board shallow wash that came out of 
Cockeye. 

Curley led, of course. Then rode Buck Johnson and 
W atkins and myself. I had horned in on general principles, 
and nobody kicked. I suppose they thought my general en- 
tanglement with this extraordinary series of events entitled 
me to more than was coming to me as ordinary cow-hand. 
For a long time we proceeded in silence. Then, as we 
neared the hills, Buck began to lay out his plan. 

“When we come up on Cockeye,” he was explaining, “I 
want you to take a half dozen men or so and throw around 
the other side on the other side on the Cochise trail ” 

His speech was cut short by the sound of a rifle shot. 
The country was still flat, unsuited for conealment or de- 
fense. We were riding carelessly. A shivering shock ran 
through my frame and my horse plunged wildly. For an 
instant I thought I must be hit, then I saw that the bullet 
cut off clearly the horn of my saddle — within two inches 
of my stomach! 

Surprise paralyzed us for the fraction of a second. Then 
we charged the rock pile from which the shot had come. 

We found there Old Man Hooper seated in a pool of his 
own blood. He had been shot through the body and was 
dead. His rifle lay across a rock, trained carefully on the 
trail. How long he had sat there nursing the vindictive 
spark of his vitality nobody will ever know — certainly for 
some hours. And the shot delivered had taken from him 
the last flicker of life. 

“By God, he was sure game!” Buck Johnson pro- 
nounced his epitaph. 

131 


CHAPTER XVIII 


We cleaned up at the ranch and herded our prisoners 
together and rode back to Box Springs. The seven men 
who had been segregated from the rest by Buck Johnson 
were not among them. I never found out what had become 
of then nor who had executed whatever decrees had been 
pronounced against them. There at the home ranch we 
found Miss Amory very anxious, excited and interested. 
Buck and the others in authority left me to inform her of 
what had taken place. 

I told you some time back that this is no love story; but 
I may as well let you in on the whole sequel to it, and get it 
off my chest. Windy’s scheme brought immediate results. 
The partnership agreement was recorded, and after the usual 
legal red-tape Miss Amory came into the property. She 
had to have a foreman for the ranch; and hanged if she 
didn’t pick on me! Think of that; me an ordinary forty- 
dollar cow puncher ! I tried to tell her that it was all plumb 
foolishness, that running a big cattle ranch was a man sized 
job and took experience, but she wouldn’t listen. Women 
are like that. She’d seen me blunder in and out of a series 
of adventures and she thought that settled it, that I was a 
great man. After arguing with her quite some time about 
it, I had to give in; so I spit on my hands and sailed in to 
do my little darndest. I expected the men who realized 


13 2 


THE KILLER 


fully how little I knew about it all would call me a brash 
damn fool or anyway give me the horse laugh; but I 
fooled myself. They were mightly decent. Jed Parker 
or Sam Wooden or Windy Bill were always just hap- 
pening by and roosting on the corral rails. Then if I lis- 
tened to them — and I always did — I learned a heap about 
what I ought to do. Why, even Buck Johnson himself came 
and stayed at the ranch with me for over a week at the time 
of the fall round up : and he never went near the riding, but 
just projected around here and there looking over my works 
and ways. And in the evenings he would smoke and utter 
grave words of executive wisdom which I treasured and 
profited by. 

If a man gives his whole mind to it, he learns practical 
things fast. Even a dumb-head Wop gets his English 
rapidly when he’s where he has to talk that or nothing. 
Inside of three years I had that ranch paying, and paying 
big. It was due to my friends whom I had been afraid of: 
and I’m not ashamed to say so. There’s Herefords on our 
range now, instead of that lot of heady long-horns Old Man 
Hooper used to run; and we’re growing alfalfa and hay in 
quantity for fattening when they come in off the ranges. 
Got considerable hogs, too : and hogs are high — nothing but 
pure blood Poland. I figure I’ve added fully fifty per 
cent, if not more, to the value of the ranch as it came to 
me. No, I’m not bragging; I’m explaining how came it I 
married my wife and figured to keep myself respect. I’d 
have married her anyhow. We’ve been together now fifteen 
years, and I’m here to say that she’s a hum-dinger of a girl, 
game as a badger, better looking every day, knows cattle 


i33 


THE KILLER 


and alfalfa and sunsets and sonatas and Poland hogs — but 
I said this was no love story, and it isn’t! 

The day following the taking of the ranch and the death of 
Old Man Hooper we put our prisoners on horses and started 
along with them toward the Mexican border. Just out- 
side of Soda Springs whom should we meet up with but big 
Tom Thorne, the sheriff. 

“Evenin’, Buck,” said he. 

“Evenin’” replied the Senor. 

“What you got here?” 

“This is a little band of religious devotees fleein’ per- 
secution,” said Buck. 

“And what are you up to with them?” asked Thorne. 

“We’re protecting them out of Christian charity from the 
dangers of the road until they reach the Promised Land.” 

“I see,” said Thorne, reflectively. “Whereabouts lays 
this Promised Land?” 

“About sixty mile due south.” 

“You sure to get them all there safe and sound — I sup- 
pose you’d be willing to guarantee that nothing’s going to 
happen to them, Buck?” 

“I give my word on that, Tom.” 

“All right,” said Thorne, evidently relieved. He threw 
his leg over the horn of his saddle. “How about that little 
dispossession matter, deputy? You ain’t reported on that.” 

“It’^all done and finished.” 

“Have any trouble?” 

“Nary trouble,” said Senor Buck Johnson blandly, “all 
went off quiet and serene.” 

THE END 

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THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS 
GARDEN CITY, N. Y. 





















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